BITS   OF   TALK 
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BITS  OF  TALK 


ABOUT    HOME    MATTERS. 


BY   H.   H.,  J1^ 

AUTHOR   OF   **  VERSES  "   AND    "  BITS   OF  TRAVEL." 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS      BROTHERS. 

1874. 


Entered  actordipg.to  Act  of  Congress,  in  th^e  year  1873,  by 
*  ROBERTiS  '. 


In  the  Pfficy  of. tiieillbra*a'rl  pf*  Congress,  at  Washington. 
••*•*•*     ••*•!»*•*    ,  •* 


CAMBRIDGE  I 
PRESS  OF  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

The  Inhumanities  of  Parents  —  Corporal  Punish 
ment  9 

The  Inhumanities  of  Parents  — Needless  Denials  17 

The  Inhumanities  of  Parents  —  Rudeness    ...  28 

Breaking  the  Will 39 

The  Reign  of  Archelaus 50 

The  Awkward  Age 59 

A  Day  with  a  Courteous  Mother 65 

Children  in  Nova  Scotia 71 

The  Republic  of  the  Family 76 

The  Ready-to-Halts 83 

The  Descendants  of  Nabal 87 

"  Boys  not  allowed  " 94 

Half  an  Hour  in  a  Railway  Station 100 

A  Genius  for  Affection 106 

Rainy  Days Ill 

Friends  of  the  Prisoners 117 

A  Companion  for  the  Winter .  122 

Choice  of  Colors .128 

The  Apostle  of  Beauty '     ,    ,     .  132 

MI3690 


yiii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

English  Lodging-Houses 138 

Wet  the  Clay 144 

The  King's  Friend 149 

Learning  to  speak 152 

Private  Tyrants 156 

Margin 162 

The  Fine  Art  of  Smiling 165 

Death-bed  Repentance 170 

The  Correlation  of  Moral  Forces 175 

A  Simple  Bill  of  Fare  for  a  Christmas  Dinner    .  179 

Children's  Parties 184 

.  After-supper  Talk 189 

Hysteria  in  Literature 193 

Jog  Trot 199 

The  Joyless  American .     .  203 

Spiritual  Teething 207 

Glass  Houses 212 

_    The  Old-Clothes  Monger  in  Journalism  ....  217 

The  Country  Landlord's  Side     . 220 

The  Good  Staff  of  Pleasure 227 

Wanted  —  a  Home    ...........  233 


BITS    OF    TALK. 


THE    INHUMANITIES   OF  PARENTS. 

CORPORAL    PUNISHMENT. 

TVTOT  long  ago  a  Presbyterian  minister  in  Western 
•*-^  New  York  whipped  his  three-year-old  boy  to 
death,  for  refusing  to  say  his  prayers.  The  little  fin 
gers  were  broken ;  the  tender  flesh  was  bruised  and 
actually  mangled  ;  strong  men  wept  when  they  looked 
on  the  body ;  and  the  reverend  murderer,  after  having 
been  set  free  on  bail,  was  glad  to  return  and  take 
refuge  within  the  walls  of  his  prison,  to  escape  sum 
mary  punishment  at  the  hands  of  an  outraged  com 
munity.  At  the  bare  mention  of  such  cruelty,  every 
heart  grew  sick  and  faint ;  men  and  women  were  dumb, 
with  horror :  only  tears  and  a  hot  demand  for  instant 
retaliation  availed. 

The  question  whether,  after  all,  that  baby  martyr 
were  not  fortunate  among  his  fellows,  would,  no  doubt, 
be  met  by  resentful  astonishment.  But  it  is  a  question 
which  may  well  be  asked,  may  well  be  pondered. 
Heart-rending  as  it  is  to  think  for  an  instant  of  the 
agonies  which  the  poor  child  must  have  borne  for  some 


10  £f/$r£:OtfS  TALK. 


hours  after  his  infant  brain  was.  too  bewildered  by  ter 
ror  .cmd  pain-.to'under^taiid.-vvhat  was  required  of  him, 
it  still  cannot  fail*  to  occur'  to  deeper  reflection  that  the 
torture  was  short  and  small  in  comparison  with  what 
the  next  ten  years  might  have  held  for  him  if  he  had 
lived.  To  earn  entrance  on  the  spiritual  life  by  the 
briefest  possible  experience  of  the  physical,  is  always 
"  greater  gain  ;"  but  how  emphatically  is  it  so  when 
the  conditions  of  life  upon  earth  are  sure  to  be  unfa 
vorable  ! 

If  it  were  possible  in  any  way  to  get  a  statistical 
summing-up  and  a  tangible  presentation  of  the  amount 
of  physical  pain  inflicted  by  parents  on  children  under 
twelve  years  of  age,  the  most  callous-hearted  would  be 
surprised  and  shocked.  If  it  were  possible  to  add  to 
this  estimate  an  accurate  and  scientific  demonstration 
of  the  extent  to  which  such  pain,  by  weakening  the 
nervous  system  and  exhausting  its  capacity  to  resist 
disease,  diminishes  children's  chances  for  life,  the 
world  would  stand  aghast. 

Too  little  has  been  said  upon  this  point.  The  oppo 
nents  of  corporal  punishment  usually  approach  the 
subject  either  from  the  sentimental  or  the  moral  stand 
point.  The  argument  on  either  of  these  grounds  can 
l)e  made  strong  enough,  one  would  suppose,  to  paralyze 
every  hand  lifted  to  strike  a  child.  But  the  question 
of  the  direct  and  lasting  physical  effect  of  blows  —  even 
of  one  blow  on  the  delicate  tissues  of  a  child's  body, 
on  the  frail  and  trembling  nerves,  on  the  sensitive 
organization  which  is  trying,  -under  a  thousand  unfa- 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       II 

voting  conditions,  to  adjust  itself  to  the  hard  work  of 
both  living  and  growing — has  yet  to  be  properly 
considered. 

Every  one  knows  the  sudden  sense  of  insupportable 
pain,  sometimes  producing  even  dizziness  and  nausea, 
which  follows  the  accidental  hitting  of  the  ankle  or 
elbow  against  a  hard  substance.  It  does  not  need  that 
the  blow  be  very  hard  to  bring  involuntary  tears  to 
adult  eyes.  But  what  is  such  a  pain  as  this,  in  com 
parison  with  the  pain  of  a  dozen  or  more  quick  tin 
gling  blows  from  a  heavy  hand  on  flesh  which  is,  which 
must  be  as  much  more  sensitive  than  ours,  as  are  the 
souls  which  dwell  in  it  purer  than  ours.  Add  to  this 
physical  pain  the  overwhelming  terror  which  only  utter 
helplessness  can  feel,  and  which  is  the  most  recognizable 
quality  in  the  cry  of  a  very  young  child  under  whipping  ; 
add  the  instinctive  sense  of  disgrace,  of  outrage,  which 
often  keeps  the  older  child  stubborn  and  still  through 
out,  —  and  you  have  an  amount  and  an  intensity  of  suf 
fering  from  which  even  tried  nerves  might  shrink.  Again, 
who  does  not  know  —  at  least,  what  woman  does  not 
know — that  violent  weeping,  for  even  a  very  short 
time,  is  quite  enough  to  cause  a  feeling  of  languor  and 
depression,  of  nervous  exhaustion  for  a  whole  day  ? 
Yet  it  does  not  seem  to  occur  to  mothers  that  little 
children  must  feel  this,  in  proportion  to  the  length  of 
time  and  violence  of  their  crying,  far  more  than  grown 
people.  Who  has  not  often  seen  a  poor  child  re 
ceive,  within  an  hour  or  two  of  the  first  whipping,  a 
second  one,  for  some  small  ebullition  of  nervous  irri- 


12  BITS  OF  TALK. 

lability,  which  was  simply  inevitable  from  its  spent 
and  worn  condition? 

It  is  safe  to  say  that  in  families  where  whipping  is 
regularly  recognized  as  a  punishment,  few  children 
under  ten  years  of  age,  and  of  average  behavior,  have 
less  than  one  whipping  a  week.  Sometimes  they  have 
more,  sometimes  the  whipping  is  very  severe.  Thus 
you  have  in  one  short  year  sixty  or  seventy  occasions 
on  which  for  a  greater  or  less  time,  say  from  one  to 
three  hours,  the  child's  nervous  system  is  subjected  to  a 
tremendous  strain  from  the  effect  of  terror  and  physical 
pain  combined  with  long  crying.  Will  any  physician 
tell  us  that  this  fact  is  not  an  element  in  that  child's 
physical  condition  at  the  end  of  that  year  ?  Will  any 
physician  dare  to  say  that  there  may  not  be,  in  that 
child's  life,  crises  when  the  issues  of  life  and  death  will 
be  so  equally  balanced  that  the  tenth  part  of  the  ner 
vous  force  lost  in  such  fits  of  crying,  and  in  the  endur 
ance  of  such  pain,  could  turn  the  scale  ? 

Nature's  retributions,  like  her  rewards,  are  cumula 
tive.  Because  her  sentences  against  evil  works  are 
not  executed  speedily,  therefore  the  hearts  of  the  sons 
of  men  are  fully  set  in  them  to  do  evil.  But  the  sen 
tence  always  is  executed,  sooner  or  later,  and  that 
inexorably.  Your  son,  O  unthinking  mother  !  may  fall 
by  the  way  in  the  full  prime  of  his  manhood,  for  lack 
of  that  strength  which  his  infancy  spent  in  enduring 
your  hasty  and  severe  punishments. 

It  is  easy  to  say,  —  and  universally  is  said,  —  by 
people  who  cling  to  the  old  and  fight  against  the  new, 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.      13 

"  All  this  outcry  about  corporal  punishment  is  sen 
timental  nonsense.  The  world  is  full  of  men  and 
women,  who  have  grown  up  strong  and  good,  in  spite 
of  whippings  ;  and  as  for  me,  I  know  I  never  had  any 
more  whipping  than  I  deserved,  or  than  was  good  for 
me." 

Are  you  then  so  strong  and  clear  and  pure  in  your 
physical  and  spiritual  nature  and  life,  that  you  are  sure 
no  different  training  could  have  made  either  your  body 
or  your  soul  better  ?  Are  these  men  and  women,  of 
whom  the  world  is  full,  so  .able-bodied,  whole-souled, 
strong-minded,  that  you  think  it  needless  to  look  about 
for  any  method  of  making  the  next  generation  better? 
Above  all,  do  you  believe  that  it  is  a  part  of  the  legiti 
mate  outworking  of  God's  plan  and  intent  in  creating 
human  beings  to  have  more  than  one-half  of  them  die 
in  childhood  ?  If  we  are  not  to  believe  that  this  fearful 
mortality  is  a  part  of  God's  plan,  is  it  wise  to  refuse  to 
consider  all  possibilities,  even  those  seemingly  most 
remote,  of  diminishing  it  ? 

No  argument  is  so  hard  to  meet  (simply  because  it 
is  not  an  argument)  as  the  assumption  of  the  good  and 
propriety  of  "  the  thing  that  hath  been."  It  is  one  of 
the  devil's  best  sophistries,  by  which  he  keeps  good 
people  undisturbed  in  doing  the  things  he  likes.  It 
has  been  in  all  ages  the  bulwark  behind  which  evils 
have  made  stand,  and  have  slain  their  thousands.  It 
is  the  last  enemy  which  shall  be  destroyed.  It  is  the 
only  real  support  of  the  cruel  evil  of  corporal  punish 
ment. 


H  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Suppose  that  such  punishment  of  children  had  been 
unheard  of  till  now.  Suppose  that  the  idea  had  yester 
day  been  suggested  for  the  first  time  that  by  inflicting 
physical  pain  on  a  child's  body  you  might  make  him 
recollect  certain  truths  ;  and  suppose  that  instead  of' 
whipping,  a  very  moderate  and  harmless  degree  of 
pricking  with  pins  or  cutting  with  knives  or  burning 
with  fire  had  been  suggested.  Would  not  fathers  and 
mothers  have  cried  out  all  over  the  land  at  the  inhu 
manity  of  the  idea  ? 

Would  they  not  still  cry  out  at  the  inhumanity  of 
one  who,  as  things  are  to-day,  should  propose  the  sub 
stitution  of  pricking  or  cutting  or  burning  for  whip 
ping  ?  But  I  think  it  would  not  be  easy  to  show  in 
what  wise  small  pricks  or  cuts  are  more  inhuman  than 
blows  ;  or  why  lying  may  not  be  as  legitimately  cured 
by  blisters  made  with  a  hot  coal  as  by  black  and  blue 
spots  made  with  a  ruler.  The  principle  is  the  same  ; 
and  if  the  principle  be  right,  why  not  multiply  methods  ? 

It  seems  as  if  this  one  suggestion,  candidly  con 
sidered,  might  be  enough  to  open  all  parents'  eyes  to 
the  enormity  of  whipping.  How  many  a  loving  mother 
will,  without  any  thought  of  cruelty,  inflict  half-a-dozen 
quick  blows  on  the  little  hand  of  her  child,  when  she 
could  no  more  take  a  pin  and  make  the  same  number 
of  thrusts  into  the  tender  flesh,  than  she  could  bind 
the  baby  on  a  rack.  Yet  the  pin-thrusts  would  hurt 
far  less,  and  would  probably  make  a  deeper  impres 
sion  on  the  child's  mind. 

Among  the  more  ignorant  classes,  the  frequency  and 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       15 

severity  of  corporal  punishment  of  children,  are  appal 
ling.  The  facts  only  need  to  be  held  up  closely  and 
persistently  before  the  community  to  be  recognized  as 
horrors  of  cruelty  far  greater  than  some  which  have 
been  made  subjects  of  legislation. 

It  was  my  misfortune  once  to  be  forced  to  spend 
several  of  the  hottest  weeks  of  a  hot  summer  in  New 
York.  In  near  neighborhood  to  my  rooms  were 
blocks  of  buildings  which  had  shops  on  the  first 
floor  and  tenements  above.  In  these  lived  the  fami 
lies  of  small  tradesmen,  and  mechanics  of  the  better 
sort.  During  those  scorching  nights  every  window 
was  thrown  open,  and  all  sounds  were  borne  with  dis 
tinctness  through  the  hot  still  air.  Chief  among  them 
were  the  shrieks  and  cries  of  little  children,  and  blows 
and  angry  words  from  tired,  overworked  mothers.  At 
times  it  became  almost  unbearable :  it  was  hard  to 
refrain  from  an  attempt  at  rescue.  Ten,  twelve,  twenty 
quick,  hard  blows,  whose  sound  rang  out  plainly,  I 
counted  again  and  again ;  mingling  with  them  came 
the  convulsive  screams  of  the  poor  children,  and  that 
most  piteous  thing  of  all,  the  reiteration  of  "  Oh, 
mamma  !  oh,  mamma  ! "  as  if,  through  all,  the  helpless 
little  creatures  had  an  instinct  that  this  word  ought  to 
be  in  itself  the  strongest  appeal.  These  families  were 
all  of  the  better  class  of  work  people,  comfortable  and 
respectable.  What  sounds  were  to  be  heard  in  the 
more  wretched  haunts  of  the  city,  during  those  nights, 
the  heart  struggled  away  from  fancying.  But  the 
shrieks  of  those  children  will  never  wholly  die  out  of 


1 6  BITS  OF  TALK. 

the  air.  I  hear  them  to-day  ;  and  mingling  with  them, 
the  question  rings  perpetually  in  my  ears,  "  Why  does 
not  the  law  protect  children,  before  the  point  at  which 
life  is  endangered  ?  " 

A  cartman  may  be  arrested  in  the  streets  for  the 
brutal  beating  of  a  horse  which  is  his  own,  and  which 
he  has  the  right  to  kill  if  he  so  choose.  Should  not  a 
man  be  equally  withheld  from  the  brutal  beating  of 
a  child  who  is  not  his  own,  but  God's,  and  whom  to 
kill  is  murder? 


THE  INHUMANITIES   OF  PARENTS.      17 


THE  INHUMANITIES   OF  PARENTS. 

NEEDLESS    DENIALS. 

TTTTEBSTER'S  Dictionary,  which  cannot  be  accused 
*  *  of  any  leaning  toward  sentimentalism,  defines 
"  inhumanity  "  as  "  cruelty  in  action  ;  "  and  "  cruelty  r 
as  "  any  act  of  a  human  being  which  inflicts  unneces 
sary  pain."  The  word  inhumanity  has  an  ugly  sound, 
and  many  inhuman  people  are  utterly  and  honestly 
unconscious  of  their  own  inhumanities  ;  it  is  necessary 
therefore  to  entrench  one's  self  behind  some  such  bul 
wark  as  the  above  definitions  afford,  before  venturing 
the  accusation  that  fathers  and  mothers  are  habitually 
guilty  of  inhuman  conduct  in  inflicting  "unnecessary 
pain "  on  their  children,  by  needless  denials  of  their 
innocent  wishes  and  impulses. 

Most  men  and  a  great  many  women  would  be  aston 
ished  at  being  told  that  simple  humanity  requires  them 
to  gratify  every  wish,  even  the  smallest,  of  their  chil 
dren,  when  the  pain  of  having  that  wish  denied  is  not 
made  necessary,  either  for  the  child's  own  welfare, 
physical  or  mental,  or  by  circumstances  beyond  the 
parent's  control.  The  word  "  necessary  "  is  a  very  au 
thoritative  one ;  conscience,  if  left  free,  soon  narrows 
2 


1 8  BITS  OF  TALK. 

down  its  boundaries  ;  inconvenience,  hindrance,  depri 
vation,  self-denial,  one  or  all,  or  even  a  great  deal  ot 
all,  to  ourselves,  cannot  give  us  a  shadow  of  right  to  say 
that  the  pain  of  the  child's  disappointment  is  "  neces 
sary."  Selfishness  grasps  at  help  from  the  hackneyed 
sayings,  that  it  is  "  best  for  children  to  bear  the  yoke 
in  their  youth  ;  "  u  the  sooner  they  learn  that  they  can 
not  have  their  own  way  the  better  ;  "  "  it  is  a  good  dis 
cipline  for  them  to  practise  self-denial,"  &c.  But  the 
yoke  that  they  must  bear,  in  spite  of  our  lightening  it 
all  we  can,  is  heavy  enough ;  the  instances  in  which 
it  is,  for.  good  and  sufficient  reasons,  impossible  for 
them  to  have  their  own  way  are  quite  numerous  enough 
to  insure  their  learning  the  lesson  very  early ;  and  as 
for  the  discipline  of  self-denial,  —  God  bless  their  dear, 
patient  souls  !  —  if  men  and  women  brought  to  bear  on 
the  thwartings  and  vexations  of  their  daily  lives,  and 
their  relations  with  each  other,  one  hundredth  part  of 
the  sweet  acquiescence  and  brave  endurance  which 
average  children  show,  under  the  average  management 
of  average  parents,  this  world  would  be  a  much  pleas- 
anter  place  to  live  in  than  it  is. 

Let  any  conscientious  and  tender  mother,  who  per 
haps  reads  these  words  with  tears  half  of  resentment, 
half  of  grief  in  her  eyes,  keep  for  three  days  an  exact 
record  of  the  little  requests  which  she  refuses,  from  the 
baby  of  five,  who  begged  to  stand  on  a  chair  and  look 
out  of  the  window,  and  was  hastily  told,  "  No,  it  would 
hurt  the  chair,"  when  one  minute  would  have  been 
enough  time  to  lay  a  folded  newspaper  over  the  up- 


THE  INHUMANITIES   OF  PARENTS.       19 

holstery,  and  another  minute  enough  to  explain  to 
him,  with  a  kiss  and  a  hug,  "  that  that  was  to  save  his 
spoiling  mamma's  nice  chair  with  his  boots  ;  "  and  the 
two  minutes  together  would  probably  have  made  *ure 
that  another  time  the  dear  little  fellow  would  look  out 
for  a  paper  himself,  when  he  wished  to  climb  up  to 
the  window,  —  from  this  baby  up  to  the  pretty  girl  of 
twelve,  who,  with  as  distinct  a  perception  of  the  becom 
ing  as  her  mother  had  before  her,  went  to  school  un 
happy  because  she  was  compelled  to  wear  the  blue  neck 
tie  instead  of  the  scarlet  one,  and  surely  for  no  especial 
reason  !  At  the  end  of  the  three  days,  an  honest  exam 
ination  of  the  record  would  show  that  full  half  of  these 
small  denials,  all  of  which  had  involved  pain,  and  some 
of  which  had  brought  contest  and  punishment,  had  been 
needless,  had  been  hastily  made,  and  made  usually  on 
account  of  the  slight  interruption  or  inconvenience 
which  would  result  from  yielding  to  the  request.  I 
am  very  much  mistaken  if  the  honest  keeping  and 
honest  study  of  such  a  three  days'  record  would  not 
wholly  change  the  atmosphere  in  many  a  house  to  what 
it  ought  to  be,  and  bring  almost  constant  sunshine  and 
bliss  where  now,  too  often,  are  storm  and  misery. 

With  some  parents,  although  they  are  neither  harsh 
nor  hard  in  manner,  nor  yet  unloving  in  nature,  the  habit 
ual  first  impulse  seems  to  be  to  refuse  :  they  appear  to 
have  a  singular  obtuseness  to  the  fact  that  it  is,  or  can 
be,  of  any  consequence  to  a  child  whether  it  does  or 
does  not  do  the  thing  it  desires.  Often  the  refusal  is 
withdrawn  on  the  first  symptom  of  grief  or  disappoint- 


20  BITS   OF  TALK. 

ment  on  the  child's  part ;  a  thing  which  is  fatal  to  all 
real  control  of  a  child,  and  almost  as  unkind  as  the 
first  unnecessary  denial,  —  perhaps  even  more  so,  as  it 
involves  double  and  treble  pains,  in  future  instances, 
where  there  cannot  and  must  .not  be  any  giving  way 
to  entreaties.  It  is  doubtless  this  lack  of  perception, 
—  akin,  one  would  think,  to  color-blindness,  —  which 
is  at  the  bottom  of  this  great  and  common  inhumanity 
among  kind  and  intelligent  fathers  and  mothers  :  an 
inhumanity  so  common  that  it  may  almost  be  said  to 
be  universal ;  so  common  that,  while  we  are  obliged  to 
look  on  and  see  our  dearest  friends  guilty  of  it,  we  find 
it  next  to  impossible  to  make  them  understand  what 
we  mean  when  we  make  outcry  over  some  of  its  glar 
ing  instances. 

You,  my  dearest  of  friends,  —  or,  rather,  you  who 
would  be,  but  for  this  one  point  of  hopeless  contention 
between  us,  —  do  you  remember  a  certain  warm  morn 
ing,  last  August,  of  which  I  told  you  then  you  had 
not  heard  the  last  ?  Here  it  is  again :  perhaps  in  print 
I  can  make  it  look  blacker  to  you  than  I  could  then  ; 
part  of  it  I  saw,  part  of  it  you  unwillingly  confessed 
to  me,  and  part  of  it  little  Blue  Eyes  told  me  her 
self. 

It  was  one  of  those  ineffable  mornings,  when  a  thrill 
of  delight  and  expectancy  fills  the  air ;  one  felt  that 
every  appointment  of  the  day  must  be  unlike  those  of 
other  days,  —  must  be  festive,  must  help  on  the  "  white 
day"  for  which  all  things  looked  ready.  I  remembei 
how  like  the  morning  itself  you  looked  as  you  stood  in 


TEE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       21. 

the  doorway,  in  a  fresh  white  muslin  dress,  with  laven 
der  ribbons.  I  said,  "  Oh,  extravagance  !  For  break 
fast  !» 

"  I  know,"  you  said  ;  "but  the  day  was  so  enchant 
ing,  I  could  not  make  .up  my  mind'  to  wear  any  thing 
that  had  been  worn  before."  Here  an  uproar  from  the 
nursery  broke  out,  and  we  both  ran  to  the  spot.  There 
stood  little  Blue 'Eyes,  in  a  storm  of  temper,  with  one 
small  foot  on  a  crumpled  mass  of  pink  cambric  on  the 
floor;  and  -nurse,  who  was  also  very  red  and  angry, 
explained  that  Miss  would  not  have  on  her  pink  frock 
because  it  was  not  quite  clean.  "  It  is  all  dirty,  mam 
ma,  and  I  don't  want  to  put  it  on  !  You've  got  on  a 
nice -white  dress:  why  can't  I?" 

You  are  in  the  main  a  kind  mother,  and  you  do  not 
like  to  give  little  Blue  Eyes  painj  so  you  knelt  down 
beside  her,  and  told  her  that  she  must  be  a  good  girl, 
and  have  on  the  gown  Mary  had  said,  but  that  she 
should  have  on  a  pretty  white  apron,  which  would  hide 
the  spots.  And  Blue  Eyes,  being  only  six  years  old, 
and  of  a  loving,  generous  nature,  dried  her  tears,  ac 
cepted  the  very  questionable  expedient,  tried  to  forget 
the  spots,  and  in  a  few  moments  came  out  on  the  piazza, 
chirping  like  a  little  bird.  By  this  time  the  rare  quality 
of  the  morning  had  stolen  like  wine  into  our  brains, 
and  you  exclaimed,  "  We  will  have  breakfast  out  here, 
under  the  vines  !  How  George  will  like  it !  "  And  in 
another  instant  you  were  flitting  back  and  forth,  help 
ing  the  rather  ungracious  Bridget  move  out  the  break- 
tast-table,  with  its  tempting  array. 


«22  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"Oh,  mamma,  mamma,"  cried  Blue  Eyes,  "can't  I 
have  my  little  tea-set  on  a  little  table  beside  your  big 
table  ?  Oh,  let  me,  let  me  !  "  and  she  fairly  quivered 
with  excitement.  You  hesitated.  How  I  watched  you  ! 
But  it  was  a  little  late.  Bridget  was  already  rather 
cross ;  the  tea-set  was  packed  in  a  box,  and  up  on  a 
high  shelf. 

"  No,  dear.  There  is  not  time,  and  we  must  not 
make  Bridget  any  more  trouble;  but"  —  seeing  the 
tears  coming  again  —  "you  shall  have  some  real  tea  in 
papa's  big  gilt  cup,  and  another  time  you  shall  have  your 
tea-set  when  we  have  breakfast  out  here  again."  As 
I  said  before,  you  are  a  kind  mother,  and  you  made  the 
denial  as  easy  to  be  borne  as  you  could,  and  Blue  Eyes 
was  again  pacified,  not  satisfied,  only  bravely  making 
the  best  of  it.  And  so  we  had  our  breakfast ;  a  break 
fast  to  be  remembered,  too.  But  as  for  the  "other 
time "  which  you  had  promised  to  Blue  Eyes ;  how 
well  I  knew  that  not  many  times  a  year  did  such  morn 
ings  and  breakfasts  come,  and  that  it  was  well  she 
would  forget  all  about  it !  After  breakfast,  —  you  re 
member  how  we  lingered,  —  George  suddenly  started 
up,  saying,  "  How  hard  it  is  to  go  to  town !  I  say, 
girls,  walk  down  to  the  station  with  me,  both  of 
you." 

"  And  me  too,  me  too,  papa !  "  said  Blue  Eyes.  You 
did  not, hear  her;  but  I  did,  and  she  had  flown  for  her 
hat.  At  the  door  we  found  her,  saying  again,  "  Me 
too,  mamma !  "  Then  you  remembered  her  boots : 
"  Oh,  my  darling,"  you  said,  kissing  her,  for  you  are  a 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       23 

kind  mother,  "  you  cannot  go  in  those  nice  boots  :  the 
dew  will  spoil  them  ;  and  it  is  not  worth  while  to  change 
them,  we  shall  be  back  in  a  few  minutes. " 

A  storm  of  tears  would  have  burst  out  in  an  instant 
at  this  the  third  disappointment,  if  I  had  not  sat  down 
on  the  door-step,  and,  taking  her  in  my  lap,  whispered 
that  auntie  was  going  to  stay  too. 

"Oh,  put  the  child  down,  and  come  along,"  called 
the  great,  strong,  uncomprehending  man  —  Blue  Eyes' 
dear  papa.  "  Pussy  won't  mind.  Be  a  good  girl, 
pussy  ;  I'll  bring  you  a  red  balloon  to-night." 

You  are  both  very  kind,  you  and  George,  and  you 
both  love  little  Blue  Eyes  dearly. 

"  No,  I  won't  come.  I  believe  my  boots  are  too 
thin,"  said  I  ;  and  for  the  equivocation  there  was  in 
my  reply  I  am  sure  of  being  forgiven.  You  both 
turned  back  twice  to  look  at  the  child,  and  kissed  your 
hands  to  her ;  and  I  wondered  if  you  did  not  see  in  her 
face,  what  I  did,  real  grief  and  patient  endurance.  Even 
"  The  King  of  the  Golden  River  "  did  not  rouse  her : 
she  did  not  want  a  story  ;  she  did  not  want  me  ;  she 
did  not  want  a  ~ed  balloon  at  night ;  she  wanted  to 
walk  between  }cu,  to  the  station,  with  her  little  hands 
in  yours  !  God  grant  the  day  may  not  come  when  you 
will  be  heart-broken  because  you  can  never  lead  her 
any  more  ! 

She  asked  me  some  questions,  while  you  were  gone, 
which  you  remember  I  repeated  to  you.  She  asked 
me  if  I  did  not  hate  nice  new  shoes ;  and  why  little 
girls  could  not  put  on  the  dresses  they  liked  best ;  and 


24  BITS  OF  TALK. 

if  mamma  did  not  look  beautiful  in  that  pretty  white 
dress  ;  and  said  that,  if  she  could  only  have  had  her 
own  tea-set,  at  breakfast,  she  would  have  let  me  have 
my  coffee  in  one  of  her  cups.  Gradually  she  grew 
happier,  and  began  to  tell  me  about  her  great  wax-doll, 
which  had  eyes  that  could  shut ;  which  was  kept  in  a 
trunk  because  she  was  too  little,  mamma  said,  to  play 
very  much  with  it  now  ;  but  she  guessed  mamma  would 
let  her  have  it  to-day ;  did  I  not  think  so  ?  Alas  !  I 
did,  and  I  said  so ;  in  fact,  I  felt  sure  that  it  was  the 
very  thing  you  would  be  certain  to  do,  to  sweeten  the 
day,  which  had  begun  so  sadly  for  poor  little  Blue 
Eyes. 

It  seemed  very  long  to  her  before  you  came  back, 
and  she  was  on  the  point  of  asking  for  her  dolly  as 
soon  as  you  appeared ;  but  I  whispered  to  her  to  wait 
till  you  were  rested.  After  a  few  minutes  I  took  her 
up  to  your  room,  —  that  lovely  room  with  the  bay  win 
dow  to  the  east ;  there  you  sat,  in  your  white  dress,  sur 
rounded  with  gay  worsteds,  all  looking  like  a  carnival 
of  humming-birds.  "  Oh,  how  beautiful !  "  I  exclaimed, 
in  involuntary  admiration  ;  "  what  are  you  doing  ?  " 
You  said  that  you  were  going  to  make  an  affghan,  and 
that  the  morning  was  so  enchanting  you  could  not  bear 
the  thought  of  touching  your  mending,  but  were  going 
to  luxuriate  in  the  worsteds.  Some  time  passed  in 
sorting  the  colors,  and  deciding  on  the  contrasts,  and 
I  forgot  all  about  the  doll.  Not  so  little  Blue  Eyes. 
I  remembered  afterward  how  patiently  she  stood  still, 
waiting  and  waiting  for  a  gap  between  our  words,  that 


THE  INHUMANITIES   OF  PARENTS.       25 

she  need  not  break  the  law  against  interrupting,  with 
her  eager  — 

"  Please,  mamma,  let  me  have  my  wax  dolly  to  play 
with  this  morning  !  I'll  sit  right  here  on  the  floor,  by 
you  and  auntie,  and  not  hurt  her  one  bit.  Oh,  please 
do,  mamma ! " 

You  mean  always  to  be  a  very  kind  mother,  and  you 
spoke  as  gently  and  lovingly  as  it  is  possible  to  speak 
when  you  replied  :  — 

"  Oh,  Pussy,  mamma  is  too  busy  to  get  it ;  she  can't 
get  up  now.  You  can  play  with  your  blocks,  and  with 
your  other  dollies,  just  as  well ;  that's  a  good  little 
girl." 

Probably,  if  Blue  Eyes  had  gone  on  imploring,  you 
would  have  laid  your  worsteds  down,  and  given  her  the 
dolly  ;  for  you  love  her  dearly,  and  never  mean  to  make 
her  unhappy.  But  neither  you  nor  I  were  prepared 
for  what  followed. 

"  YouVe  a  naughty,  ugly,  hateful  mamma !  You 
never  let  me  do  any  thing,  and  I  wish  you  were  dead  !  " 
with  such  a  burst  of  screaming  and  tears  that  we  were 
both  frightened.  You  looked,  as  well  you  might,  heart 
broken  at  such  words  from  your  only  child.  You  took 
her  away ;  and  when  you  came  back,  you  cried,  and 
said  you  had  whipped  her  severely,  and  you  did  not 
know  what  you  should  do  with  a  child  of  such  a  fright 
ful  temper. 

"  Such  .an  outburst  as  that,  just  because  I  told  her, 
in  the  gentlest  way  possible,  that  she  could  not  have  a 
plaything  !  It  is  terrible  !  " 


26  BITS   OF  TALK. 

Then  I  said  some  words  to  you,  which  you  thought 
were  unjust.  I  asked  you  in  what  condition  your  own 
nerves  would  have  been  by  ten  o'clock  that  morning 
if  your  husband  (who  had,  in  one  view,  a  much  better 
right  to  thwart  your  harmless  desires  than  you  had  to 
thwart  your  child's,  since  you,  in  the  full  understand 
ing  of  maturity,  gave  yourself  into  his  hands)  had,  in 
stead  of  admiring  your  pretty  white  dress,  told  you  to 
be  more  prudent,  and  not  put  it  on  ;  had  told  you  it 
would  be  nonsense  to  have  breakfast  out  on  the  piazza  ; 
and  that  he  could  not  wait  for  you  to  walk  to  the  sta 
tion  with  him.  You  said  that  the  cases  were  not  at 
all  parallel ;  and  I  replied  hotly  that  that  was  very 
true,  for  those  matters  would  have  been  to  you  only 
the  comparative  trifles  of  one  short  day,  and  would 
have  made  you  only  a  little  cross  and  uncomfortable ; 
whereas  to  little  Blue  Eyes  they  were  the  all-absorb 
ing  desires  of  the  hour,  which,  to  a  child  in  trouble, 
always  looks  as  if  it  could  never  come  to  an  end,  and 
would  never  be  followed  by  any  thing  better. 

Blue  Eyes  cried  herself  to  sleep,  and  slept  heavily 
till  late  in  the  afternoon.  When  her  father  came  home, 
you  said  that  she  must  not  have  the  red  balloon,  be 
cause  she  had  been  such  a  naughty  girl.  I  have  won 
dered  many  times  since  why  she  did  not  cry  again,  or 
look  grieved  when  you  said  that,  and  laid  the  balloon 
away.  After  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  I  went  to  look  at 
her,  and  found  her  sobbing  in  her  sleep,  and  tossing 
about.  I  groaned  as  I  thought,  "This  is  only  one 
day,  and  there  are  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  in  a 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       27 

year  !  "  But  I  never  recall  the  distorted  face  of  that 
poor  child,  as,  in  her  fearful  passion,  she  told  you  she 
wished  you  were  dead,  without  also  remembering  that 
even  the  gentle  Christ  said  of  him  who  should  offend 
one  of  these  little  ones,  "It  were  better  for  him  that  a 
mill-stone  were  hanged  about  his  neck,  and  he  were 
drowned  in  the  depths  of  the  sea !  " 


BITS  OF  TALK. 


THE   INHUMANITIES   OF  PARENTS. 

RUDENESS. 

**  Inhumanity  —  Cruelty.     Cruelty  —  The  disposition  to  give  unneces 
sary  pain." —  Webster's  Diet. 

T  HAD  intended  to  put  third  on  the  list  of  inhumani- 
•*•  ties  of  parents  "  needless  requisitions  ; "  but  my 
last  summer's  observations  changed  my  estimate,'  and 
convinced  me  that  children  suffer  more  pain  from  the 
rudeness  with  which  they  are  treated  than  from  being 
forced  to  do  needless  things  which  they  dislike.  In 
deed,  a  positively  and  graciously  courteous  manner 
toward  children  is  a  thing  so  rarely  seen  in  average 
daily  life,  the  rudenesses  which  they  receive  are  so  innu 
merable,  that  it  is  hard  to  tell  where  to  begin  in  set 
ting  forth  the  evil.  Children  themselves  often  bring 
their  sharp  and  unexpected  logic  to  bear  on  some  in 
cident  illustrating  the  difference  in  this  matter  of 
behavior  between  what  is  required  from  them  and  what 
is  shown  to  them :  as  did  a  little  boy  I  knew,  whose 
father  said  crossly  to  him  one  morning,  as  he  came 
into  the  breakfast-room,  "  Will  you  ever  learn  to  shut 
that  door  after  you  ? "  and  a  few  seconds  later,  as 
the  child  was  rather  sulkily  sitting  down  in  his  chair, 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       29 

"And  do  you  mean  to  bid  anybody  'good-morning, 
or  not  ? "  "I  don't  think  you  gave  me  a  very  nice 
*  good-morning,'  anyhow,"  replied  satirical  justice, 
aged  seven.  Then,  of  course,  he  was  reproved  for 
speaking  disrespectfully ;  and  so  in  the  space  of  three 
minutes  the  beautiful  opening  of  the  new  day,  for  both 
parents  and  children,  was  jarred  and  robbed  of  its 
fresh  harmony  by  the  father's  thoughtless  rudeness. 

Was  the  breakfast-room  door  much  more  likely  to 
be  shut  the  next  morning  ?  No.  The  lesson  was 
pushed  aside  by  the  pain,  the  motive  to  resolve  was 
dulled  by  the  antagonism.  If  that  father  had  called 
his  son,  and,  putting  his  arm  round  him,  (oh  !  the 
blessed  and  magic  virtue  of  putting  your  arm  round  a 
child's  neck ! )  had  said,  "  Good-morning,  my  little 
man  ;  "  and  then,  in  a  confidential  whisper  in  his  ear, 
"  What  shall  we  do  to  make  this  forgetful  little  boy 
remember  not  to  leave  that  door  open,  through  which 
the  cold  wind  blows  in  on  all  of  us  ?  "  —  can  any  words 
measure  the  difference  between  the  first  treatment  and 
the  second  ?  between  the  success  of  the  one  and  the 
failure  of  the  other  ? 

Scores  of  times  in  a  day,  a  child  is  told,  in  a  short, 

authoritative  way,  to  do  or  not  to  do  certain  little  things 

•    which  we  ask  at  the  hands  of  older  people,  as  favors,  gra- 

[^  ciously,  and  with  deference  to  their  choice.     "  Would 

"you  be  so  very  kind  as  to  close  that  window  ?"  "  May 

I  trouble  you  for  that  cricket  ?  "    "  If  you  would  be  as 

comfortable  in  this  chair  as  in  that,  I  would  like  to 

change  places  with  you."   "  Oh,  excuse  me,  but  your 


3°  BITS  OF  TALK. 

head  is  between  me  and  the  light :  could  you  see  as 
well  if  you  moved  a  little  ?"  "Would  it  hinder  you 
too  long  to  stop  at  the  store  for  me  ?  I  would  be  very 
much  obliged  to  you,  if  you  would."  "  Pray,  do  not 
let  me  crowd  you,"  &c.  In  most  people's  speech  to 
children,  we  find,  as  synonyms  for  these  polite  phrases  : 
"  Shut  that  window  dawn,  this  minute."  "  Bring  me 
that  cricket."  "I  want  that  chair;  get  up.  You  can 
sit  in  this."  "  Don't  you  see  that  you  are  right  in  my 
light  ?  Move  along."  "  I  want  you  to  leave  off  play 
ing,  and  go  right  down  to  the  store  for  me."  "  Don't 
crowd  so.  Can't  you  see  that  there  is  not  room  enough 
for  two  people  here  ?  "  and  so  on.  As  I  write,  I  feel 
an  instinctive  consciousness  that  these  sentences  will 
come  like  home-thrusts  to  some  surprised  people.  I 
hope  so.  That  is  what  I  want.  I  am  sure  that  in 
more  than  half  the  cases  where  family  life  is  marred 
in  peace,  and  almost  stripped  of  beauty,  by  just  these 
little  rudenesses,  the  parents  are  utterly  unconscious 
of  them.  The  truth  is,  it  has  become  like  an  estab 
lished  custom,  this  different  and  less  courteous  way 
of  speaking  to  children  on  small  occasions  and  minor 
matters.  People  who  are  generally  civil  and  of  fair 
kindliness  do  it  habitually,  not  only  to  their  own  chil 
dren,  but  to  all  children.  We  see  it  in  the  cars,  in  the 
stages,  in  stores,  in  Sunday  schools,  everywhere. 

On  the  other  hand,  let  a  child  ask  for  any  thing  with 
out  saying  "please,"  receive  any  thing  without  saying 
"thank  you,"  sit  still  in  the  most  comfortable  seat 
without  offering  to  give  it  up,  or  press  its  own  prefer- 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       31 

ence  for  a  particular  book,  chair,  or  apple,  to  the  in 
conveniencing  of  an  elder,  and  what  an  outcry  we 
have  :  "  Such  rudeness  !  "  "  Such  an  ill-mannered 
child ! "  "  His  parents  must  have  neglected  him 
strangely."  Not  at  all :  they  have  been  steadily  tell 
ing  him  a  great  many  times  every  day  not  to  do  these 
precise  things  which  you  dislike.  But  they  themselves 
have  been  all  the  while  doing  those  very  things  to 
him  ;  and  there  is  no  proverb  which  strikes  a  truer 
balance  between  two  things  than  the  old  one  which 
weighs  example  over  against  precept. 

However,  that  it  is  bad  policy  to  be  rude  to  children 
is  the  least  of  the  things  to  be  said  against  it.  Over 
this  they  will  triumph,  sooner  or  later.  The  average 
healthy  child  has  a  native  bias  towards  gracious  good 
behavior  and  kindly  affections.  He  will  win  and  be 
won  in  the  long  run,  and,  the  chances  are,  have  better 
manners  than  his  father.  But  the  pain  that  we  give 
these  blessed  little  ones  when  we  wound  their  tender 
ness,  —  for  that  there  is  no  atoning.  Over  that  they 
can  never  triumph,  either  now  or  hereafter.  Why  do 
we  dare  to  be  so  sure  that  they  are  not  grieved  by  un 
gracious  words  a,nd  tones  ?  that  they  can  get  used  to 
being  continually  treated  as  if  they  were  "  in  the  way  "  ? 
Who  has  not  heard  this  said  ?  I  have,  until  I  have 
longed  for  an  Elijah  and  for  fire,  that  the  grown-up 
cumberefs  of  the  ground,  who  are  the  ones  really  in 
the  way,  might  be  burned  up,  to  make  room  for  the 
children.  I  believe  that,  if  it  were  possible  to  count 
up  in  any  one  month,  and  show  in  the  aggregate,  all 


32  BITS  OF  TALK. 

of  this  class  of  miseries  borne  by  children,  the  world 
would  cry  out  astonished.  I  know  a  little  girl,  ten 
years  old,  of  nervous  temperament,  whose  whole  phys 
ical  condition  is  disordered,  and  seriously,  by  her 
mother's  habitual  atmosphere  of  rude  fault-finding. 
She  is  a  sickly,  fretful,  unhappy,  almost  unbearable 
child.  If  she  lives  to  grow  up,  she  will  be  a  sickly, 
fretful,  unhappy,  unlovely  woman.  But  her  mother  is 
just  as  much  responsible  for  the  whole  as  if  she  had 
deranged  her  system  by  feeding  her  on  poisonous 
drugs.  Yet  she  is  a  most  conscientious,  devoted,  and 
anxious  mother,  and,  in  spite  of  this  manner,  a  loving 
one.  She  does  not  know  that  there  is  any  better  way 
than  hers.  She  does  not  see  that  her  child  is  mortified 
and  harmed  when  she  says  to  her,  in  the  presence  of 
strangers,  "  How  do  you  suppose  you  look  with  your 
mouth  open  like  that  ?  "  "  Do  you  want  me  to  show 
you  how  you  are  sitting?"  —  and  then  a  grotesque 
imitation  of  her  stooping  shoulders.  "Will  you  sit 
still  for  one  minute?"  "Do  take  your  hands  off  my 
dress."  "  Was  there  ever  such  an  awkward  child  ?  M 
When  the  child  replies  fretfully  and  disagreeably,  she 
does  not  see  that  it  is  only  an  exact  reflection  of  her 
own  voice  and  manners.  She  does  not  understand  any 
of  the  things  that  would  make  for  her  own  peace,  as 
well  as  for  the  child's.  Matters  grow  worse,  instead 
of  better,  as  the  child  grows  older  and  has  more  will  \ 
and  the  chances  are  that  the  poor  little  soul  will  be 
worried  into  her  grave. 

Probably  most  parents,  even  very  kindly  ones,  would 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       33 

be  a  little  startled  at  the  assertion  that  a  child  ought 
never  to  be  reproved  in  the  presence  of  others.  This 
is  so  constant  an  occurrence  that  nobody  thinks  of 
noticing  it ;  nobody  thinks  of  considering  whether 
it  be  right  and  best,  or  not.  But  it  is  a  great  rude 
ness  to  a  child.  I  am  entirely  sure  that  it  ought 
never  to  be  done.  Mortification  is  a  condition  as 
unwholesome  as  it  is  uncomfortable.  When  the 
wound  is  inflicted  by  the  hand  of  a  parent,  it  is  all 
the  more  certain  to  rankle  and  do  harm.  Let  a  child 
see  that  his  mother  is  so  anxious  that  he  should  have 
the  approbation  and  good-will  of  her  friends  that  she 
will  not  call  their  attention  to  his  faults  ;  and  that, 
while  she  never,  under  any  circumstances,  allows  her 
self  to  forget  to  tell  him '  afterward,  alone,  if  he  has 
behaved  improperly,  she  will  spare  him  the  additional 
pain  and  mortification  of  public  reproof;  and,  while 
that  child  will  lay  these  secret  reproofs  to  heart,  he 
will  still  be  happy. 

I  know  a  mother  who  had  the  insight  to  see  this, 
and  the  patience  to  make  it  a  rule  ;  for  it  takes  far 
more  patience,  far  more  time,  than  the  common 
method. 

She  said  sometimes  to  her  little  boy,  after  visitors- 
had  left  the  parlor,  "  Now,  dear,  I  am  going  to  be  your 
little  girl,  and  you  are  to  be  my  papa.  And  we  will 
play  that  a  gentleman  has  just  come  in  to  see  you,  and 
I  will  show  you  exactly  how  you  have  been  behaving 
while  this  lady  has  been  calling  to  see  me.  And  you 
can  see  if  you  do  not  feel  very  sorry  to  have  your  little 

girl  behave  so." 

8 


34  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Here  is  a  dramatic  representation  at  once  which 
that  boy  does  not  need  to  see  repeated  many  times 
before  he  is  forever  cured  of  interrupting,  of  pulling 
his  mother's  gown,  of  drumming  on  the  piano,  &c.,  — 
of  the  thousand  and  one  things  which  able-bodied 
children  can  do  to  make  social  visiting  where  they 
are  a  martyrdom  and  a  penance. 

Once  I  saw  this  same  little  boy  behave  so  boister 
ously  and  rudely  at  the  dinner-table,  in  the  presence 
of  guests,  that  I  said  to  myself,  "  Surely,  this  time  she 
will  have  to  break  her  rule,  and  reprove  him  publicly." 
I  saw  several  telegraphic  signals  of  rebuke,  entreaty, 
and  warning  flash  from  her  gentle  eyes  to  his  ;  but 
nothing  did  afty  good.  -Nature  was  too  much  for  him; 
he  could  not  at  that  minute  force  himself  to  be  quiet. 
Presently  she  said,  in  a  perfectly  easy  and  natural 
tone,  "  Oh,  Charley,  come  here  a  minute  ;  I  want  to 
tell  you  something."  No  one  at  the  table  supposed 
that  it  had  any  thing  to  do  with  his  bad  behavior.  She 
did  not  intend  that  they  should.  As  she  whispered  to 
him,  I  alone  saw  his  cheek  flush,  and  that  he  looked 
quickly  and  imploringly  into  her  face;  I  alone  saw  that 
tears  were  almost  in  her  eyes.  But  she  shook  her 
.head,  and  he  went  back  to  his  seat  with  a  manful  but 
very  red  little  face.  In  a  few  moments  he  laid  down 
his  knife  and  fork,  and  said,  "  Mamma,  will  you  please 
to  excuse  me  ?  "  "  Certainly,  my  dear,"  said  she. 
Nobody  but  I  understood  it,  or  observed  that  the  little 
fellow  had  to  run  very  fast  to  get  out  of  the  room  'with 
out  crying.  Afterward  she  told  me  that  she  never  sent 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       35 

a  child  away  from  the  table  in  any  other  way.  "  But 
what  would  you  do,"  said  I,  "  if  he  were  to  refuse  to 
ask  to  be  excused  ?  "  Then  the  tears  stood  full  in  her 
eyes.  "  Do  you  think  he  could,"  she  replied,  "when 
he  sees  that  I  am  only  trying  to  save  him  from  pain  ?  '* 
In  the  evening,  Charley  sat  in  my  lap,  and  was  very 
sober.  At  last  he  whispered  to  me,  "  I'll  tell  you  an 
'  awful  secret,  if  you  won't  tell.  Did  you  think  I  had 
done  my  dinner  this  afternoon  when  I  got  excused  ? 
Well,  I  hadn't.  Mamma  made  me,  because  I  acted 
so.  That's  the  way  she  always  does.  But  I  haven't 
had  to  have  it  done  to  me  before  for  ever  so  long,  — 
not  since  I  was  a  little  fellow  "  (he  was  eight  now) ; 
"  and  I  don't  believe  I  ever  shall  again  till  I'm  a  man.'7 
Then  he  added,  reflectively,  "  Mary  brought  me  all  the 
rest  of  my  dinner  upstairs  ;  but  I  wouldn't  touch  it, 
only  a  little  bit  of  the  ice-cream.  I  don't  think  I  de 
served  any  at  all  ;  do  you  ?  " 

I  shall  never,  so  long  as  I  live,  forget  a  lesson  of 
this  sort  which  my  own  mother  once  gave  me.  I  was 
not  more  than  seven  years  old  ;  but  I  had  a  great  sus 
ceptibility  to  color  and  shape  in  clothes,  and  an  insatia 
ble  admiration  for  all  people  who  came  finely  dressed. 
One  day,  my  mother  said  to  me,  "  Now  I  will  play 
4  house '  with  you."  Who  does  not  remember  when 
to  "  play  house  "  was  their  chief  of  plays  ?  And  to 
whose  later  thought  has  it  not  occurred  that  in  this 
mimic  little  show  lay  bound  up  the  whole  of  life  ?  My 
mother  was  the  liveliest  of  playmates,  she  took  the 
worst  doll,  the  broken  tea-set,  the  shabby  furniture, 


36  BITS  OF  TALK. 

and  the  least  convenient  corner  of  the  room  for  her 
establishment.  Social  life  became  a  round  of  festivi 
ties  when  she  kept  house  as  my  opposite  neighbor. 
At  last,  after  the  washing-day,  and  the  baking-day, 
and  the  day  when  she  took  dinner  with  me,  and  the 
day  when  we  took  our  children  and  walked  out  to 
gether,  came  the  day  for  me  to  take  my  oldest  child 
and  go  across  to  make  a  call  at  her  house.  Chill  dis 
comfort  struck  me  on  the  very  threshold  of  my  visit. 
Where  was  the  genial,  laughing,  talking  lady  who  had 
been  my  friend  up  to  that  moment  ?  There  she  sat, 
stock-still,  dumb,  staring  first  at  my  bonnet,  then  at 
my  shawl,  then  at  my  gown,  then  at  my  feet ;  up  and 
down,  down  and  up,  she  scanned  me,  barely  replying 
in  monosyllables  to  my  attempts  at  conversation ; 
finally  getting  up,  and  coming  nearer,  and  examining 
my  clothes,  and  my  child's  still  more  closely.  A  very 
few  minutes  of  this  were  more  than  I  could  bear ;  and, 
almost  crying,  I  said,  "  Why,  mamma,  what  makes 
you  do  so  ?  "  Then  the  play  was  over  ;  and  she  was 
once  more  the  wise  and  tender  mother,  telling  me  play 
fully  that  it  was  precisely  in  such  a  way  I  had  stared, 
the  day  before,  at  the  clothes  of  two  ladies  who  had 
come  in  to  visit  her.  I  never  needed  that  lesson 
again.  To  this  day,  if  I  find  myself  departing  from 
it  for  an  instant,  the  old  tingling  shame  burns  in  my 
cheeks. 

To  this  day,  also,  the  old  tingling  pain  burns  my 
cheeks  as  I  recall  certain  rude  and  contemptuous 
words  which  were  said  to  me  when  I  was  very 


THE  INHUMANITIES  OF  PARENTS.       37 

young,  and  stamped  on  my  memory  forever.  I  was 
once  called  a  "  stupid  child "  in  the  presence  of 
strangers.  I  had  brought  the  wrong  book  from 
my  father's  study.  Nothing  could  be  said  to  me  to 
day  which  would  give  me  a  tenth  part  of  the  hope 
less  sense  of  degradation  which  came  from  those 
words.  Another  time,  on  the  arrival  of  an  unexpected 
guest  to  dinner,  I  was  sent,  in  a  great  hurry,  away 
from  the  table,  to  make  room,  with  the  remark  that 
"  it  was  not  of  the  least  consequence  about  the  child  ; 
she  could  just  as  well  have  her  dinner  afterward." 
"  The  child  "  would  have  been  only  too  happy  to  help 
on  the  hospitality  of  the  sudden  emergency,  if  the 
thing  had  been  differently  put ;  but  the  sting  of  having 
it  put  in  that  way  I  never  forgot.  Yet  in  both  these 
instances  the  rudeness  was  so  small,  in  comparison 
with  what  we  habitually  see,  that  it  would  be  too  trivial 
to  mention,  except  for  the  bearing  of  the  fact  that  the 
pain  it  gave  has  lasted  till  now. 

When  we  consider  seriously  what  ought  to  be  the 
nature  of  a  reproof  from  a  parent  to  a  child,  and  what 
is  its  end,  the  answer  is  simple  enough.  It  should  be 
nothing  but  the  superior  wisdom  and  strength,  ex 
plaining  to  inexperience  and  feebleness  wherein  they 
have  made  a  mistake,  to  the  end  that  they  may  avoid 
such  mistakes  in  future.  If  personal  annoyance,  im 
patience,  antagonism  enter  in,  the  relation  is  marred 
and  the  end  endangered.  Most  sacred  and  inalienable 
of  all  rights  is  the  right  of  helplessness  to  protection 
from  the  strong,  of  ignorance  to  counsel  from  the  wise. 


38  BITS  OF  TALK. 

If  we  give  our  protection  and  counsel  grudgingly,  or 
in  a  churlish,  unkind  manner,  even  to  the  stranger 
that  is  in  our  gates,  we  are  no  Christians,  and  deserve 
to  be  stripped  of  what  little  wisdom  and  strength  we 
have  hoarded.  But  there  are  no  words  to  say  what 
we  are  or  what  we  deserve  if  we  do  thus  to  the  little 
children  whom  we  have  dared,  for  our  own  pleasure, 
to  bring  into  the  perils  of  this  life,  and  whose  whole 
future  may  be  blighted  by  the  mistakes  of  our  careless 
hands. 


BREAKING    THE    WILL.  39 


BREAKING    THE   WILL. 

'THHIS  phrase  is  going  out  of  use.  It  is  high  time 
-*•  it  did.  If  the  thing  it  represents  would  (  also 
cease,  there  would  be  stronger  and  freer  men  and 
women.  But  the  phrase  is  still  sometimes  heard  ;  and 
there  are  still  conscientious- fathers  and  mothers  who 
believe  they  do  God  service  in  setting  about  the  thing. 

I  have  more  than  once  said  to  a  parent  who  used 
these  words,  "  Will  you  tell  me  just  what  you  mean 
by  that  ?  Of  course  you  do  not  mean  exactly  what  you 
say." 

"  Yes,  I  do.  I  mean  that  the  child's  will  is  to  be 
once  for  all  broken  !  —  that  he  is  to  learn  that  my  will 
is  to  be  his  law.  The  sooner  he  learns  this  the  better." 

"  But  is  it  to  your  will  simply  as  will  that  he  is  to 
yield  ?  Simply  as  the  weaker  yields  to  the  stronger, 
—  almost  as  matter  yields  to  force  ?  For  what  reason 
is  he  to  do  this  ?  " 

"  Why,  because  I  know  what  is  best  for  him,  and 
what  is  right ;  and  he  does  not." 

"  Ah  !  that  is  a  very  different  thing.  He  is,  then,  to 
do  the  thing  that  you  tell  him  to  do,  because  that  thing 
is  right  and  is  needful  for  him ;  you  are  his  guide  on  a 
road  over  which  you  have  gone,  and  he  has  not ;  you 


4°  BITS  OF  TALK. 

are  an  interpreter,  a  helper ;  you  know  better  than  he 
does  about  all  things,  and  your  knowledge  is  to  teach 
his  ignorance." 

"  Certainly,  that  is  what  I  mean.  A  pretty  state  of 
things  it  would  be  if  children  were  to  be  allowed  to 
think  they  know  as  much  as  their  parents.  There  is 
no  way  except  to  break  their  wills  in  the  beginning." 

"  But  you  have  just  said  that  it  is  not  to  your  will  as 
will  that  he  is  to  yield,  but  to  your  superior  knowledge 
and  experience.  That  surely  is  not '  breaking  his  will.' 
It  is  of  all  things  furthest  removed  from  it.  It  is  edu 
cating  his  will.  It  is  teaching  him  how  to  will." 

This  sounds  dangerous  ;  but  the  logic  is  not  easily 
turned  aside,  and  there  is  little  left  for  the  advocate  of 
will-breaking  but  to  fall  back  on  some  texts  in  the 
Bible,  which  have  been  so  often  misquoted  in  this  con 
nection  that  one  can  hardly  hear  them  with  patience. 
To  "  Children,  obey  your  parents,"  was  added  "  in  the 
Lord,"  and  "because  it  is  right,"  not  " because  they 
are  your  parents."  "  Spare  the  rod  "  has  been  quite 
gratuitously  assumed  to  mean  "  spare  blows."  "  Rod  " 
means  here,  as  elsewhere,  simply  punishment.  We 
are  not  told  to  "  train  up  a  child  "  to  have  no  will  but 
our  own,  but  "  in  the  way  in  which  he  should  go,"  and 
to  the  end  that  "when  he  is  old"  he  should  not  "de 
part  from  it,"  —  i.  e.,  that  his  will  should  be  so  educated 
that  he  will  choose  to  walk  in  the  right  way  still.  Sup 
pose  a  child's  will  to  be  actually  "  broken  ;  "  suppose 
him  to  be  so  trained  that  he  has  no  will  but  to  obey  his 
parents.  What  is  to  become  of  this  helpless  machine, 


BREAKING   THE   WILL.  41 

which  has  no  central  spring  of  independent  action  ? 
Can  we  stand  by,  each  minute  of  each  hour  of  each  day, 
and  say  to  the  automata,  Go  here,  or  Go  there  ?  Can 
we  be  sure  of  living  as  long  as  they  live  ?  Can  we  wind 
them  up  like  seventy-year  clocks,  and  leave  them  ? 

But  this  is  idle.  It  is  not,  thank  God,  in  the  power 
of  any  man  or  any  woman  to  "  break  "  a  child's  "  will." 
They  may  kill  the  child's  body,  in  trying,  like  that  still 
unhung  clergyman  in  Western  New  York,  who  whipped 
his  three-year-old  son  to  death  for  refusing  to  repeat  a 
prayer  to  his  step-mother. 

Bodies  are  frail  things  ;  there  are  more  child-martyrs 
than  will  be  known  until  the  bodies  terrestrial  are  done 
with. 

But,  by  one  escape  or  another,  the  will,  the  soul,  goes 
free.  Sooner  or  later,  every  human  being  comes  to 
know  and  prove  in  his  own  estate  that  freedom  of  will 
is  the  only  freedom  for  which  there  are  no  chains  pos 
sible,  and  that  in  Nature's  whole  reign  of  law  nothing 
is  so  largely  provided  for  as  liberty.  Sooner  or  later, 
all  this  must  come.  But,  if  it  comes  later,  it  comes 
through  clouds  of  antagonism,  and  after  days  of  fight, 
and  is  hard-bought. 

It  should  come  sooner,  like  the  kingdom  of  God, 
which  it  is,  —  "without  observation,"  gracious  as  sun 
shine,  sweet  as  dew  ;  it  should  begin  with  the  infant's 
first  dawning  of  comprehension  that  there  are  two 
courses  of  action,  two  qualities  of  conduct :  one  wise, 
the  other  foolish  ;  one  right,  the  other  wrong. 

I  am  sure,  for  I  have  seen,  that  a  child's  moral  per- 


42  BITS   OF  TALK. 

ceptions  can  be  so  made  clear,  and  his  will  so  made 
strong  and  upright,  that  before  he  is  ten  years  old  he 
will  see  and  take  his  way  through  all  common  days 
rightly  and  bravely. 

Will  he  always  act  up  to  his  highest  moral  percep 
tions  ?  No.  Do  we  ?  But  one  right  decision  that  he 
makes  voluntarily,  unbiassed  by  the  assertion  of  au 
thority  or  the  threat  of  punishment,  is  worth  more  to 
him  in  development  of  moral  character  than  a  thousand 
in  which  he  simply  does  what  he  is  compelled  to  do  by 
some  sort  of  outside  pressure. 

I  read  once,  in  a  book  intended  for  the  guidance  of 
mothers,  a  story  of  a  little  child  who,  in  repeating  his 
letters  one  day,  suddenly  refused  to  say  A.  All  the 
other  letters  he  repeated  again  and  again,  unhesita 
tingly  ;  but  A  he  would  not,  and  persisted  in  declaring 
that  he  could  not  say.  He  was  severely  whipped,  but 
still  persisted.  It  now  became  a  contest  of  wills.  He 
was  whipped  again  and  again  and  again.  In  the  inter 
vals  between  the  whippings  the  primer  was  presented 
to  him,  and  he  was  told  that  he  would  be  whipped 
again  if  he  did  not  mind  his  mother  and  say  A.  I  for 
get  how  many  times  he  was  whipped  ;  but  it  was  almost 
too  many  times  to  be  believed.  The  fight  was  a  terri 
ble  one.  At  last,  in  a  paroxysm  of  his  crying  under 
the  blows,  the  mother  thought  she  heard  him  sob  out 
"  A,"  and  the  victory  was  considered  to  be  won. 

A  little  boy  whom  I  know  once  had  a  similar  contest 
over  a  letter  of  the  alphabet ;  but  the  contest  was  with 
himself,  and  his  mother  was  the  faithful  Great  Heart 


BREAKING   THE    WILL.  43 

who  helped  him  through.  The  story  is  so  remarkable 
that  I  have  long  wanted  all  mothers  to  know  it.  It  is 
as  perfect  an  illustration  of  what  I  mean  by  "  educat 
ing"  the  will  as  the  other  one  is  of  what  is  called 
"breaking"  it. 

Willy  was  about  four  years  old.  He  had  a  large, 
active  brain,  sensitive  temperament,  and  indomitable 
spirit.  He  was  and  is  an  uncommon  child.  Common 
methods  of  what  is  commonly  supposed  to  be  "  disci 
pline  "  would,  if  he  had  survived  them,  have  made  a 
very  bad  boy  of  him.  He  had  great  difficulty  in  pro 
nouncing  the  letter  G,  —  so  much  that  he  had  formed 
almost  a  habit  of  omitting  it.  One  day  his  mother  said, 
not  dreaming  of  any  special  contest,  "  This  time  you 
must  say  G."  "  It  is  an  ugly  old  letter,  and  I  ain't 
ever  going  to  try  to  say  it  again,"  said  Willy,  repeating 
the  alphabet  very  rapidly  from  beginning  to  end,  with 
out  the  G.  Like  a  wise  mother,  she  did  not  open  at 
once  on  a  struggle ;  but  said,  pleasantly,  "  Ah  !  you 
did  not  get  it  in  that  time.  Try  again  ;  go  more  slowly, 
and  we  will  have  it."  It  was  all  in  vain  ;  and  it  soon 
began  to  look  more  like  real  obstinacy  on  Willy's  part 
than  any  thing  she  had  ever  seen  in  him.  She  has 
often  told  me  how  she  hesitated  before  entering  on  the 
campaign.  "  I  always  knew,"  she  said,  "  that  Willy's 
rirst  real  fight  with  himself  would  be  no  matter  of  a 
few  hours  ;  and  it  was  a  particularly  inconvenient  .time 
for  me,  just  then,  to  give  up  a  day  to  it.  But  it  seemed, 
on  the  whole,  best  not  to  put  it  off." 

So  she  said,  "  Now,  Willy,  you  can't  get  along  with- 


44  BITS  OF  TALK 

out  the  letter  G.  The  longer  you  put  off  saying  it,  the 
harder  it  will  be  for  you  to  say  it  at  last ;  and  we  will 
have  it  settled  now,  once  for  all.  You  are  never  going 
to  let  a  little  bit  of  a  letter  like  that  be  stronger  than 
Willy.  We  will  not  go  out  of  this  room  till  you  have 
said  it." 

Unfortunately,  Willy's  will  had  already  taken  its 
stand.  However,  the  mother  made  no  authoritative 
demand  that  he  should  pronounce  the  letter  as  a  mat 
ter  of  obedience  to  her.  Because  it  was  a  thing  in 
trinsically  necessary  for  him  to  do,  she  would  see,  at 
any  cost  to  herself  or  to  him,  that  he  did  it ;  but  he 
must  do  it  voluntarily,  and  she  would  wait  till  he  did. 

The  morning  wore  on.  She  busied  herself  with 
other  matters,  and  left  Willy  to  himself;  now  and  then 
asking,  with  a  smile,  "  Well,  isn't  my  little  boy  stronger 
than  that  ugly  old  letter  yet  ? " 

Willy  was  sulky.  He  understood  in  that  early  stage 
all  that  was  involved.  Dinner-time  came. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  dinner,  mamma?" 

"  Oh !  no,  dear ;  not  unless  you  say  G,  so  that  you 
can  go  too.  Mamma  will  stay  by  her  little  boy  until 
he  is  out  of  this  trouble.1' 

The  dinner  was  brought  up,  and  they  ate  it  together. 
She  was  cheerful  and  kind,  but  so  serious  that  he  felt 
the  constant  pressure  of  her  pain. 

The  afternoon  dragged  slowly  on  to  night.  Willy 
cried  now  and  then,  and  she  took  him  in  her  lap,  and 
said,  "  Dear,  you  will  be  happy  as  soon  as  you  say 
that  letter,  and  mamma  will  be  happy  too,  and  we  can't 
either  of  us  be  happy  until  you  do." 


BREAKING   THE    WILL.  45 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  why  don't  you  make  me  say  it  ?  " 

(This  he  said  several  times  before  the  affair  was 
over.) 

"  Because,  dear,  you  must  make  yourself  say  it.  I 
am  helping  you  make  yourself  say  it,  for  I  shall  not  let 
you  go  out  of  this  room,  nor  go  out  myself,  till  you  do 
say  it ;  but  that  is  all  I  shall  do  to  help  you.  I  am 
listening,  listening  all  the  time,  and  if  you  say  it,  in 
ever  so  little  a  whisper,  I  shall  hear  you.  That  is  all 
mamma  can  do  for  you." 

Bed-time  came.  Willy  went  to  bed,  unkissed  and 
sad.  The  next  morning,  when  Willy's  mother  opened 
her  eyes,  she  saw  Willy  sitting  up  in  his  crib,  and  look 
ing  at  her  steadfastly.  As  soon  as  he  saw  that  she  was 
awake,  he  exclaimed,  "  Mamma,  I  can't  say  it ;  and 
you  know  I  can't  say  it.  You're  a  naughty  mamma, 
and  you  don't  love  me."  Her  heart  sank  within  her  ; 
but  she  patiently  went  again  and  again  over  yester 
day's  ground.  Willy  cried.  He  ate  very  little  break 
fast.  He  stood  at  the  window  in  a  listless  attitude  of 
discouraged  misery,  which  she  said  cut  her  to  the 
heart.  Once  in  a  while  he  would  ask  for  some  play 
thing  which  he  did  not  usually  have.  She  gave  him 
whatever  he  asked  for ;  but  he  could  not  play.  She 
kept  up  an  appearance  of  being  busy  with  her  sewing, 
but  she  was  far  more  unhappy  than  Willy. 

Dinner  was  brought  up  to  them.  Willy  said, 
"  Mamma,  this  ain't  a  bit  good  dinner." 

She  replied,  "Yes,  it  is,  darling;  just  as  good  as 
we  ever  have.  It  is  only  because  we  are  eating  it 


46  BITS  OF  TALK. 

alone.     And  poor  papa  is  sad,  too,  taking  his  all  alone 
downstairs." 

At  this  Willy  burst  out  into  an  hysterical  fit  of  cry 
ing  and  sobbing. 

"  I  shall  never  see  my  papa  again  in  this  world." 

Then  his  mother  broke  down,  too,  and  cried  as  hard 
as  he  did  ;  but  she  said,  "  Oh  !  yes,  you  will,  dear.  I 
think  you  will  say  that  letter  before  tea-time,  and  we 
will  have  a  nice  evening  downstairs  together." 

"  I  can't  say  it.  I  try  all  the  time,  and  I  can't  say 
it ;  and,  if  you  keep  me  here  till  I  die,  I  shan't  ever 
say  it." 

The  second  night  settled  down  dark  and  gloomy,  and 
Willy  cried  himself  to  sleep.  His  mother  was  ill  from 
anxiety  and  confinement ;  but  she  never  faltered.  She 
told  me  she  resolved  that  night  that,  if  it  were  neces 
sary,  she  would  stay  in  that  room  with  Willy  a  month. 
The  next  morning  she  said  to  him,  more  seriously  than 
before,  "  Now,  Willy,  you  are  not  only  a  foolish  little 
boy,  you  are  unkind  ;  you  are  making  everybody  un 
happy.  Mamma  is  very  sorry  for  you,  but  she  is  also 
very  much  displeased  with  you.  Mamma  will  stay  here 
with  you  till  you  say  that  letter,  if  it  is  for  the  rest  of 
your  life  ;  but  mamma  will  not  talk  with  you,  as  she  did 
yesterday.  She  tried  all  day  yesterday  to  help  you, 
and  you  would  not  help  yourself;  to-day  you  must  do 
it  aL  alone." 

-  "  Mamma,  are  you  sure  I  shall  ever  say  it  ?  "  asked 
Willy. 

4kYes,  dear;  perfectly  sure.  You  will  say  it  some 
day  or  other." 


BREAKING.  THE    WILL.  47 

"  Do  you  think  I  shall  say  it  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  can't  tell.  You  are  not  so  strong  a  little  boy  as 
I  thought.  I  believed  you  would  say  it  yesterday.  I 
am  afraid  you  have  some  hard  work  before  you." 

Willy  begged  her  to  go  down  and  leave  him  alone. 
Then  he  begged  her  to  shut  him  up  in  the  closet,  and 
"see  if  that  wouldn't  make  him  good."  Every  few 
minutes  he  would  come  and  stand  before  her,  and  say 
very  earnestly,  "  Are  you  sure  I  shall  say  it  ? " 

He  looked  very  pale,  almost  as  if  he  had  had  a  fit  of 
illness.  No  wonder.  It  was  the  whole  battle  of  life 
fought  at  the  age  of  four. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  this  the  third  day. 
Willy  had  been  sitting  in  his  little  chair,  looking 
steadily  at  the  floor,  for  so  long  a  time  that  his  mother 
was  almost  frightened.  But  she  hesitated  to  speak  to 
him,  for  she  felt  that  the  crisis  had  come.  Suddenly 
he  sprang  up,  and  walked  toward  her  with  all  the  de 
liberate  firmness  of  a  man  in  his  whole  bearing.  She 
says  there  was  something  in  his  face  which  she  has 
never  seen  since,  and  does  not  expect  to  see  till  he  is 
thirty  years  old. 

"  Mamma  !  "  said  he. 

"  Well,  dear  ? "  said  his  mother,  trembling  so  that 
she  could  hardly  speak. 

"  Mamma,"  he  repeated,  in  a  loud,  sharp  tone,  "  G  ! 
G !  G  !  G  !  "  And  then  he  burst  into  a  fit  of  crying, 
which  she  had  hard  work  to  stop.  It  was  over. 

Willy  is  now  ten  years  old.  From  that  day  to  this 
his  mother  has  never  had  a  contest  with  him  ;  she  has 


48  BITS  OF  TALK. 

always  been  able  to  leave  all  practical  questions  affect 
ing  his  behavior  to  his  own  decision,  merely  saying, 
"  Willy,  I  think  this  or  that  will  be  better." 

his  self-control  and  gentleness  are  wonderful  to  see  ; 
and  the  blending  in  his  face  of  childlike  simplicity  and 
purity  with  manly  strength  is  something  which  I  have 
only  once  seen  equalled. 

For  a  few  days  he  went  about  the  house,  shouting 
"  G  !  G  !  G  !  "  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  He  was  heard 
asking  playmates  if  they  could  "say  G,"  and  "who 
showed  them  how."  For  several  years  he  used  often 
to  allude  to  the  affair,  saying,  "  Do  you  remember, 
mamma,  that  dreadful  time  when  I  wouldn't  say  G  ? " 
He  always  used  the  verb  "wouldn't"  in  speaking  of 
it.  Once,  when  he  was  sick,  he  said,  "  Mamma,  do 
you  think  I  could  have  said  G  any  sooner  than  I 
did  ? " 

"  I  have  never  felt  certain  about  that,  Willy,"  she 
said.  "  What  do  you  think  ? " 

"  I  think  I  could  have  said  it  a  few  minutes  sooner. 
I  was  saying  it  to  myself  as  long  as  that ! "  said  Willy. 

It  was  singular  that,  although  up  to  that  time  he  had 
never  been  able  to  pronounce  the  letter  with  any  dis 
tinctness,  when  he  first  made  up  his  mind  in  this  in 
stance  to  say  it,  he  enunciated  it  with  perfect  clearness, 
and  never  again  went  back  to  the  old,  imperfect  pro 
nunciation. 

Few  mothers,  perhaps,  would  be  able  to  give  up  two 
whole  days  to  such  a  battle  as  this  ;  other  children, 
other  duties,  would  interfere.  But  the  same  principle 


BREAKING   THE    WILL.  49 

could  be  carried  out  without  the  mother's  remaining 
herself  by  the  child's  side  all  the  time.  Moreover,  not 
one  child  in  a  thousand  would  hold  out  as  Willy  did. 
In  all  ordinary  cases  a  few  hours  would  suffice.  And, 
after  all,  what  would  the  sacrifice  of  even  two  days  be, 
in  comparison  with  the  time  saved  in  years  to  come  ? 
If  there  were  no  stronger  motive  than  one  of  policy,  of 
desire  to  take  the  course  easiest  to  themselves,  mothers 
might  well  resolve  that  their  first  aim  should  be  to  edu 
cate  their  children's  wills  and  make  them  strong,  in 
stead  of  to  conquer  and  "  break  "  them. 


50  BITS  OF  TALK. 


THE  REIGN  OF  ARCHELAUS. 

TTEROD'S  massacre  had,  after  all,  a  certain  mercy 
•*••*•  in  it :  there  were  no  lingering  tortures.  The 
slayers  of  children  went  about  with  naked  and  bloody 
swords,  which  mothers  could  see,  and  might  at  least 
make  effort  to  flee  from.  Into  Rachel's  refusal  to  be  com 
forted  there  need  enter  no  bitter  agonies  of  remorse. 
But  Herod's  death,  it  seems,  did  not  make  Judea  a  safe 
place  for  babies.  When  Joseph  "heard  that  Arche- 
laus  did  reign  in  the  room  of  his  father,  Herod,  he  was 
afraid  to  return  thither  with  the  infant  Jesus,"  and  only 
after  repeated  commands  and  warnings  from  God  would 
he  venture  as  far  as  Nazareth.  The  reign  of  Arche- 
laus  is  not  yet  over  ;  he  has  had  many  names,  and  ruled 
over  more  and  more  countries,  but  the  spirit  of  his 
father,  Herod,  is  still  in  him.  To-day  his  power  is  at 
its  zenith.  He  is  called  Education ;  and  the  safest 
'place  for  the  dear,  holy  children  is  still  Egypt,  or 
some  other  of  the  fortunate  countries  called  unen 
lightened. 

Some  years  ago  there  were  symptoms  of  a  strong 
rebellion  against  his  tyranny.     Horace  Mann  lifted  up 


THE  REIGN  OF  ARCHELAUS.  51 

his  strong  hands  and  voice  against  it ;  physicians  and 
physiologists  came  out  gravely  and  earnestly,  and  for 
tified  their  positions  with  statistics  from  which  there 
was  no  appeal.  Thomas  Wentworth  Higginson,  whose 
words  have  with  the  light,  graceful  beauty  of  the  Da 
mascus  blade  its  swift  sureness  in  cleaving  to  the  heart 
of  things,  wrote  an  article  for  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly" 
called"  The  Murder  of  the  Innocents,"  which  I  wish 
could  be  put  into  every  house  in  the  United  States. 
Some  changes  in  school  organizations  resulted  from 
these  protests  ;  in  the  matter  of  ventilation  of  school 
rooms  some  real  improvement  was  probably  effected  ; 
though  we  shudder  to  think  how  much  room  remains 
for  further  improvement,  when  we  read  in  the  report 
of  the  superintendent  of  public  schools  in  Brooklyn 
that  in  the  primary  departments  of  the  grammar  schools 
"  an  average  daily  number  of  33,275  pupils  are  crowded 
into  one-half  the  space  provided  in  the  upper  de 
partments  for  an  average  daily  attendance  of  26,359  > 
or  compelled  to  occupy  badly  lighted,  inconvenient, 
and  ill-ventilated  galleries,  or  rooms  in  the  basement 
stories." 

But  in  regard  to  the  number  of  hours  of  confinement, 
and  amount  of  study  required  of  children,  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  schools  have  ever  been  much  more  mur 
derously  exacting  than  now. 

The  substitution  of  the  single  session  of  five  hours 
for  the  old  arrangement  of  two  sessions  of  three  hours 
each,  with  a  two-hours  interval  at  noon,  was  regarded 
as  a  great  gain.  So  it  would  be,  if  all  the  brain- work 


52  BITS   OF  TALK. 

of  the  day  were  done  in  that  time  ;  but  in  most  schools 
with  the  five-hours  session,  there  is  next  to  no  pro 
vision  for  studying  in  school-hours,  and  the  pupils  are 
required  to  learn  two,  three,  or  four  lessons  at  home. 
Now,  when  is  your  boy  to  learn  these  lessons  ?  Not 
in  the  morning,  before  school ;  that  is  plain.  School 
ends  at  two.  Few  children  live  sufficiently  near  their 
schools  to  get  home  to  dinner  before  half  past  two 
o'clock.  We  say  nothing  of  the  undesirableness  of 
taking  the  hearty  meal  of  the  day  immediately  after  five 
hours  of  mental  fatigue  ;  it  is  probably  a  less  evil  than 
the  late  dinner  at  six,  and  we  are  in  a  region  where  we 
are  grateful  for  less  evils  !  Dinner  is  over  at  quarter 
past  three  ;  we  make  close  estimates.  In  winter  there 
is  left  less  than  two  hours  before  dark.  This  is  all  the 
time  the  child  is  to  have  for  out-door  play ;  two  hours 
and  a  half  (counting  in  his  recess)  out  of  twenty-four. 
Ask  any  farmer,  even  the  stupidest,  how  well  his  colt 
or  his  lamb  would  grow  if  it  had  but  two  hours  a  day  of 
absolute  freedom  and  exercise  in  the  open  air,  and  that 
in  the  dark  and  the  chill  of  a  late  afternoon  !  In  spite 
of  the  dark  and  the  chill,  however,  your  boy  skates  or 
slides  on  until  he  is  called  in  by  you,  who,  if  you  are 
an  American  mother,  care  a  great  deal  more  than  he 
does  for  the  bad  marks  which  will  stand  on  his  week's 
report  if  those  three  lessons  are  not  learned  before  bed 
time.  He  is  tired  and  cold  ;  he  does  not  want  to  study 
—  who  would  ?  It  is  six  o'clock  before  he  is  fairly  at  it. 
You  work  harder  than  he  does,  and  in  half  an  hour  one 
lesson  is  learned ;  then  comes  tea.  After  tea  half  an 


THE  REIGN  OF  ARCHELAUS.  53 

hour,  or  perhaps  an  hour,  remains  before  bed-time  ;  in 
this  time,  which  ought  to  be  spent  in  light,  cheerful 
talk  or  play,  the  rest  of  the  lessons  must  be  learned. 
He  is  sleepy  and  discouraged.  Words  which  in  the 
freshness  of  the  morning  he  would  have  learned  in  a 
very  few  moments  with  ease,  it  is  now  simply  out  of 
his  power  to  commit  to  memory.  You,  if  you  are  not 
superhuman,  grow  impatient.  At  eight  o'clock  he  goes 
to  bed,  his  brain  excited  and  wearied,  in  no  condition 
for  healthful  sleep ;  and  his  heart  oppressed  with  the 
fear  of  "  missing  "  in  the  next  day's  recitations.  And 
this  is  one  out  of  the  school-year's  two  hundred  and 
sixteen  days  —  all  of  which  will  be  like  this,  or  worse. 
One  of  the  most  pitiful  sights  we  have  seen  for  months 
was  a  little  group  of  four  dear  children,  gathered  round 
the  library  lamp,  trying  to  learn  the  next  day's  lessons 
in  time  to  have  a  story  read  to  them  before  going  to 
bed.  They  had  taken  the  precaution  to  learn  one  les 
son  immediately  after  dinner,  before  going  out,  cutting 
their  out-door  play  down  by  half  an  hour.  The  two 
elder  were  learning  a  long  spelling-lesson  ;  the  third 
was  grappling  with  geographical  definitions  of  capes, 
promontories,  and  so  forth  ;  and  the  youngest  was  at 
work  on  his  primer.  In  spite  of  all  their  efforts,  bed 
time  came  before  the  lessons  were  learned.  The  little 
geography  student  had  been  nodding  over  her  book  for 
some  minutes,  and  she  had  the  philosophy  to  say,  ;;  I 
don't  care  ;  I'm  so  sleepy.  I  had  rather  go  to  bed  than 
hear  any  kind  of  a  story."  But  the  elder  ones  were 
grieved  and  unhappy,  and  said,  "  There  won't  ever  be 


54  BITS  OF  TALK. 

any  time ;  we  shall  have  just  as  much  more  to  learn 
to-morrow  night."  The  next  morning,  however,  there 
was  a  sight  still  more  pitiful :  the  child  of  seven,  with 
a  little  bit  of  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  three  sums  in 
addition  to  be  done,  and  the  father  vainly  endeavoring 
to  explain  them  to  him  in  the  hurried  moments  before 
breakfast.  It  would  be  easy  to  show  how  fatal  to  all 
real  mental  development,  how  false  to  all  Nature's  laws 
of  growth,  such  a  system  must  be  ;  but  that  belongs  to 
another  side  of  the  question.  We  speak  now  simply 
of  the  effect  of  it  on  the  body ;  and  here  we  quote 
largely  from  the  admirable'  article  of  Col.  Higginson's, 
above  mentioned.  No  stronger,  more  direct,  more 
conclusive  words  can  be  written  :  — 

"  Sir  Walter  Scott,  according  to  Carlyle,  was  the 
only  perfectly  healthy  literary  man  who  ever  lived. 
He  gave  it  as  his  deliberate  opinion,  in  conversation 
with  Basil  Hall,  that  five  and  a  half  hours  form  the 
limit  of  healthful  mental  labor  for  a  mature  person. 
'  This  I  reckon  very  good  work  for  a  man,'  he  said. 
' 1  can  very  seldom  work  six  hours  a  day.'  Supposing 
his  estimate  to  be  correct,  and  five  and  a  half  hours 
the  reasonable  limit  for  the  day's  work  of  a  mature 
intellect,  it  is  evident  that  even  this  must  be  altogether 
too  much  for  an  immature  one.  '  To  suppose  the 
youthful  brain,'  says  the  recent  admirable  report,  by  Dr. 
Ray,  of  the  Providence  Insane  Hospital,  *  to  be  capa 
ble  of  an  amount  of  work  which  is  considered  an  am 
ple  allowance  to  an  adult  brain  is  simply  absurd.'  '  It 
would  be  wrong,  therefore,  to  deduct  less  than  a  half- 


THE  REIGN  OF  ARCHELAUS.  55 

hour  from  Scott's  estimate,  for  even  the  oldest  pupils 
in  our  highest  schools,  leaving  five  hours  as  the  limit 
of  real  mental  effort  for  them,  and  reducing  this  for  all 
younger  pupils  very  much  further.' 

"  But  Scott  is  not  the  only  authority  in  the  case  ; 
let  us  ask  the  physiologists.  So  said  Horace  Mann 
before  us,  in  the  days  when  the  Massachusetts  school 
system  was  in  process  of  formation.  He  asked  the 
physicians  in  1840,  and  in  his  report  printed  the  an 
swers  of  three  of  the  most  eminent.  The  late  Dr. 
Woodward,  of  Worcester,  promptly  said  that  chil 
dren  under  eight  should  never  be  confined  more 
than  one  hour  at  a  time,  nor  more  than  four  hours  a 
day. 

"  Dr.  James  Jackson,  of  Boston,  allowed  the  chil 
dren  four  hours  schooling  in  winter  and  five  in  sum 
mer,  but  only  one  hour  at  a  time ;  and  heartily 
expressed  his  detestation  of  giving  young  children 
lessons  to  learn  at  home. 

"  Dr.  S.  G.  Howe,  reasoning  elaborately  on  the 
whole  subject,  said  that  children  under  eight  years  of 
age  should  never  be  confined  more  than  half  an  hour 
at  a  time  ;  by  following  which  rule,  with  long  recesses, 
they  can  study  four  hours  daily.  Children  between 
eight  and  fourteen  should  not  be.  confined  more 
than  three-quarters  of  an  hour  at  a  time,  having  the 
last  quarter  of  each  hour  for  exercise  on  the  play 
ground. 

"  Indeed,  the  one  thing  about  which  doctors  do  not 
disagree  is  the  destructive  effect  of  premature  or  ex- 


56  BITS   OF  TALK. 

cessive  mental  labor.  I  can  quote  you  medical  author 
ity  for  and  against  every  maxim  of  dietetics  beyond  the 
very  simplest  ;  but  I  defy  you  to  find  one  man  who 
ever  begged,  borrowed,  or  stole  the  title  of  M.D.,  and 
yet  abused  those  two  honorary  letters  by  asserting 
under  their  cover  that  a  child  could  safely  study  as 
much  as  a  man,  or  that  a  man  could  safely  study  more 
than  six  hours  a  day." 

"  The  worst  danger  of  it  is  that  the  moral  is  written 
at  the  end  of  the  fable,  not  at  the  beginning.  The 
organization  in  youth  is  so  dangerously  elastic  that  the 
result  of  these  intellectual  excesses  is  not  seen  until 
years  after.  When  some  young  girl  incurs  spinal 
disease  from  some  slight  fall,  which  she  ought  not  to 
have  felt  for  an  hour,  or  some  business  man  breaks 
down  in  the  prime  of  his  years  from  some  trifling 
over-anxiety,  which  should  have  left  no  trace  behind, 
the  popular  verdict  may  be  '  Mysterious  Providence  ; ' 
but  the  wiser  observer  sees  the  retribution  for  the 
folly  of  those  misspent  days  which  enfeebled  the  child 
ish  constitution  instead  of  ripening  it.  One  of  the 
most  striking  passages  in  the  report  of  Dr.  Ray,  before 
mentioned,  is  that  in  which  he  explains  that,  '  though 
study  at  school  is  rarely  the  immediate  cause  of  in 
sanity,  it  is  the  most  frequent  of  its  ulterior  causes, 
except  hereditary  tendencies.'  //  diminishes  the  con 
servative  power  of  the  animal  economy  to  such  a  de 
gree  that  attacks  of  disease  'which  otherwise  would 
have  passed  off  safely  destroy  life  almost  before  danger 
is  anticipated" 


THE  REIGN  OF  ARCHELAUS.  57 

It  would  be  easy  to  multiply  authorities  on  these 
points.  It  is  hard  to  stop.  But  our  Hmits  forbid  any 
thing  like  a  full  treatment  of  the  subject.  Yet  discus 
sion  on  this  question  ought  never  to  cease  in  the  land 
until  a  reform  is  brought  about.  Teachers  are  to 
blame  only  in  part  for  the  present  wrong  state  of 
things.  They  are  to  blame  for  yielding,  for  acquiesc 
ing  ;  but  the  real  blame  rests  on  parents.  Here  and 
there,  individual  fathers  and  mothers,  taught,  per 
haps,  by  heart-rending  experience,  try  to  make  stand 
against  the  current  of  false  ambitions  and  unhealthy 
standards.  But  these  are  rare  exceptions.  Parents, 
as  a  class,  not  only  help  on,  but  create  the  pressure  to 
which  teachers  yield,  and  children  are  sacrificed.  The 
whole  responsibility  is  really  theirs.  They  have  in 
their  hands  the  power  to  regulate  the  whole  school 
routine  to  which  their  children  are  to  be  subjected. 
This  is  plain,  when  we  once  consider  what  would  be 
the  immediate  effect  in  any  community,  large  or  small, 
if  a  majority  of  parents  took  action  together,  and  per 
sistently  refused  to  allow  any  child  under  fourteen  to 
be  confined  in  school  more  than  four  hours  out  of  the 
twenty-four,  more  than  one  hour  at  a  time,  or  to  do  more 
than  five  hours'  brain-work  in  a  day.  The  law  of  sup 
ply  and  demand  is  a  first  principle.  In  three  months 
the  schools  in  that  community  would  be  entirely  re 
organized,  to  accord  with  the  parents'  wishes ;  in  three 
years  the  improved  average  health  of  the  children  in 
that  community  would  bear  its  own  witness  in  ruddy 
bloom  along  the  streets ;  and  perhaps  even  in  one 


58  BITS   OF  TALK. 

generation  so  great  gain  of  vigor  might  be  made 
that  the  melancholy  statistics  of  burial  would  no 
longer  have  to  record  the  death  under  twelve  years 
of  age  of  more  than  two-fifths  of  the  children  who 
are  born. 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE.  59 


THE  AWKWARD   AGE. 

THE  expression  defines  itself.  At  the  first  sound 
of  the  words,  we  all  think  of  some  one  unhappy 
soul  we  know  just  now,  whom  they  suggest.  Nobody 
is  ever  without  at  least  one  brother,  sister,  cousin,  or 
friend  on  hand,  who  is  struggling  through  this  social 
«lough  of  despond ;  and  nobody  ever  will  be,  so  long 
is  the  world  goes  on  taking  it  for  granted  that  the 
plough  is  a  necessity,  and  that  the  road  must  go 
through  it.  Nature  never  meant  any  such  thing.  Now 
and  then  she  blunders  or  gets  thwarted  of  her  intent, 
and  turns  out  a  person  who  is  awkward,  hopelessly  and 
forever  awkward  ;  body  and  soul  are  clumsy  together, 
and  it  is  hard  to  fancy  them  translated  to  the  spiritual 
world  without  too  much  elbow  and  ankle.  However, 
these  are  rare  cases,  and  come  in  under  the  law  of 
variation.  But  an  awkward  age, — a  necessary  crisis 
or  stage  of  uncouthness,  through  which  all  human  be 
ings  must  pass,  —  Nature  was  incapable  of  such  a  con 
ception  ;  law  has  no  place  for  it ;  development  does  not 
know  it ;  instinct  revolts  from  it ;  and  man  is  the  only 
animal  who  has  been  silly  and  wrong-headed  enough 
to  stumble  into  it.  The  explanation  and  the  remedy 


60  BITS   OF  TALK. 

are  so  simple,  so  close  at  hand,  that  we  have  not  seen 
them.  The  whole  thing  lies  in  a  nutshell.  Where  does 
this  abnormal,  uncomfortable  period  come  in  ?  Between 
childhood,  we  say,  and  maturity ;  it  is  the  transition 
from  one  to  the  other.  When  human  beings,  then,  are 
neither  boys  nor  men,  girls  nor  women,  they  must  be 
for  a  few  years  anomalous  creatures,  must  they  ?  We 
might,  perhaps,  find  a  name  for  the  individual  in  this 
condition  as  well  as  for  the  condition.  We  must  look 
to  Du  Chaillu  for  it,  if  we  do  ;  but  it  is  too  serious  a 
distress  to  make  light  of,  even  for  a  moment.  We  have 
all  felt  it,  and  we  know  how  it  feels ;  we  all  see  it  every 
day,  and  we  know  how  it  looks. 

What  is  it  which  the  child  has  and  the  adult  loses, 
from  the  loss  of  which  comes  this  total  change  of  be 
havior  ?  Or  is  it  something  which  the  adult  has  and 
the  child  had  not  ?  It  is  both  ;  and  until  the  loss  and 
the  gain,  the  new  and  the  old,  are  permanently  sep 
arated  and  balanced,  the  awkward  age  lasts.  The  child 
was  overlooked,  contradicted,  thwarted,  snubbed,  in 
sulted,  whipped  ;  not  constantly,  not  often,  —  in  many 
cases,  thank  God,  very  seldom.  But  the  liability  was 
there,  and  he  knew  it ;  he  never  forgot  it,  if  you  did. 
One  burn  is  enough  to  make  fire  dreaded.  The  adult, 
once  fairly  recognized  as  adult,  is  not  overlooked, 
contradicted,  thwarted,  snubbed,  insulted,  whipped ;  at 
least,  not  with  impunity.  To  this  gratifying  freedom, 
these  comfortable  exemptions,  when  they  are  xonce  es 
tablished  in  our  belief,  we  adjust  ourselves,  and  grow 
contentedly  good-mannered.  To  the  other  regime. 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE.  6l 

while  we  were  yet  children,  we  also  somewhat  adjusted 
ourselves,  were  tolerably  well  behaved,  and  made  the 
best  of  it.  But  who  could  bear  a  mixture  of  both  ? 
What  genius  could  rise  superior  to  it,  could  be  itself, 
surrounded  by  such  uncertainties  ? 

No  wonder  that  your  son  comes  into  the  room  with 
a  confused  expression  of  uncomfortable  pain  on  every 
feature,  when  he  does  not  in  the  least  know  whether  he 
will  be  recognized  as  a  gentleman,  or  overlooked  as  a 
little  boy.  No  wonder  he  sits  down  in  his  chair  with 
movements  suggestive  of  nothing  but  rheumatism  and 
jack-knives,  when  he  is  thinking  that  perhaps  there  may 
be  some  reason  why  he  should  not  take  that  particular 
chair,  and  that,  if  there  is,  he  will  be  ordered  up. 

No  wonder  that  your  tall  daughter  turns  red,  stam 
mers,  and  says  foolish  things  on  being  courteously 
spoken  to  by  strangers  at  dinner,  when  she  is  afraid 
that  she  maybe  sharply  contradicted  or  interrupted, 
and  remembers  that  day  before  yesterday  she  was  told 
that  children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard. 

I  knew  a  very  clever  girl,  who  had  the  misfortune  to 
look  at  fourteen  as  if  she  were  twenty.  At  home,  she 
was  the  shyest  and  most  awkward  of  creatures  ;  away 
from  her  mother  and  sisters,  she  was  self-possessed  and 
charming.  She  said  to  me,  once,  "  Oh  !  I  have  such  a 
splendid  time  away  from  home.  Tin  so  tall,  everybody 
thinks  I  am  grown  up,  and  everybody  is  civil  to  me," 

I  know,  also,  a  man  of  superb  physique,  charming 
temperament,  and  uncommon  talent,  who  is  to  this  day 
— and  he  is  twenty-five  years  old  —  nervous  and  ill  at 


62  BITS  OF  TALK. 

ease  in  talking  with  strangers,  in  the  presence  of  his 
own  family.  He  hesitates,  stammers,  and  never  does 
justice  to  his  thoughts.  He  says  that  he  believes  he 
shall  never  be  free  from  this  distress  ;  he  cannot  escape 
from  the  recollections  of  the  years  between  fourteen 
and  twenty,  during  which  he  was  so  systematically 
snubbed  that  his  mother's  parlor  was  to  him  worse 
than  the  chambers  of  the  Inquisition.  He  knows  that 
he  is  now  sure  of  courteous  treatment ;  that  his  friends 
are  all  proud  of  him  ;  but  the  old  cloud  will  never  en 
tirely  disappear.  Something  has  been  lost  which  can 
never  be  regained.  And  the  loss  is  not  his  alone,  it  is 
theirs  too  ;  they  are  all  poorer  for  life,  by  reason  of  the 
unkind  days  which  are  gone. 

This,  then,  is  the  explanation  of  the  awkward  age. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  any  dissent  from  my  definition  of 
the  source  whence  its  misery  springs.  Everybody's 
consciousness  bears  witness.  Everybody  knows,  in 
the  bottom  of  his  heart,  that,  however  much  may  be 
said  about  the  change  of  voice,  the  thinness  of  cheeks, 
the  sharpness  of  arms,  the  sudden  length  in  legs  and 
lack  of  length  in  trousers  and  frocks,  —  all  these  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  real  misery.  The  real  misery 
was  simply  and  solely  the  horrible  feeling  of  not  be 
longing  anywhere  ;  not  knowing  what  a  moment  might 
bring  forth  in  the  way  of  treatment  from  others  ;  never 
being  sure  which  impulse  it  would  be  safer  to  follow,  to 
retreat  or  to  advance,  to  speak  or  to  be  silent,  and  often 
overwhelmed  with  unspeakable  mortification  at  the  re 
buff  of  the  one  or  the  censure  of  the  other.  Oh  !  how 


THE  AWKWARD  AGE.  63 

dreadful  it  all  was  !  How  dreadful  it  all  is,  even  to 
remember  !  It  would  be  malicious  even  to  refer  to  it, 
except  to  point  out  the  cure. 

The  cure  is  plain.  It  needs  no  experiment  to  test 
it.  Merely  to  mention  it  ought  to  be  enough.  If  hu 
man  beings  are  so  awkward  at  this  unhappy  age,  and 
so  unhappy  at  this  awkward  age,  simply  because  they 
do  not  know  whether  they  are  to  be  treated  as  children 
or  as  adults,  suppose  we  make  a  rule  that  children  are 
always  to  be  treated,  in  point  of  courtesy,  as  if  they 
were  adults?  Then  this  awkward  age — this  period 
of  transition  from  an  atmosphere  of,  to  say  the  least, 
negative  rudeness  to  one  of  gracious  politeness  —  dis 
appears.  There  cannot  be  a  crisis  of  readjustment  of 
social  relations  :  there  is  no  possibility  of  such  a  feel 
ing  ;  it  would  be  hard  to  explain  to  a  young  person 
what  it  meant.  Now  and  then  we  see  a  young  man  or 
young  woman  who  has  never  known  it.  They  are 
usually  only  children,  and  are  commonly  spoken  of  as 
wonders.  I  know  such  a  boy  to-day.  At  seventeen  he 
measures  six  feet  in  height ;  he  has  the  feet  and  the 
hands  of  a  still  larger  man ;  and  he  comes  of  a  blood 
which  had  far  more  strength  than  grace.  But  his  man 
ner  is,  and  always  has  been,  sweet,  gentle,  composed, 
—  the  very  ideal  of  grave,  tender,  frank  young  man 
hood.  People  say,  "  How  strange  !  He  never  seemed 
to  have  any  awkward  age  at  all."  It  would  have  been 
stranger  if  he  had.  Neither  his  father  nor  his  mother 
ever  departed  for  an  instant,  in  their  relations  with  him, 
from  the  laws  of  courtesy  and  kindliness  of  demeanor 
which  governed  their  relations  with  others. 


64  BITS  OF  TALK. 

He  knew  but  one  atmosphere,  and  that  a  genial  one, 
from  his  babyhood  up  ;  and  in  and  of  this  atmosphere 
has  grown  up  a  sweet,  strong,  pure  soul,  for  which  the 
quiet,  self-possessed  manner  is  but  the  fitting  garb. 

This  is  part  of  the  kingdom  that  cometh  unobserved. 
In  this  kingdom  we  are  all  to  be  kings  and  priests,  if 
we  choose  ;  and  all  its  ways  are  pleasantness.  But  we 
are  not  ready  for  it  till  we  have  become  peaceable  and 
easy  to  be  entreated,  and  have  learned  to  understand 
why  it  was  that  one  day,  when  Jesus  called  his  dis 
ciples  together,  he  set  a  little  child  in  their  midst 


A  DAY  WITH  A  COURTEOUS  MOTHER. 


A   DAY  WITH   A   COURTEOUS    MOTHER. 

TOURING  the  whole  of  one  of  last  summer's  hot- 
"^>^  test  days  I  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  seated  in 
a  railway  car  near  a  mother  and  four  children,  whose 
relations  with  each  other  were  so  beautiful  that  the 
pleasure  of  watching  them  was  quite  enough  to  make 
one  forget  the  discomforts  of  the  journey. 

It  was  plain  that  they  were  poor  ;  their  clothes  were 
coarse  and  old,  and  had  been  made  by  inexperienced 
hands.  The  mother's  bonnet  alone  would  have  been 
enough  to  have  condemned  the  whole  party  on  any  of 
the  world's  thoroughfares.  -  I  remembered  afterward, 
with  shame,  that  I  myself  had  smiled  at  the  first  sight 
of  its  antiquated  ugliness  ;  but  her  face  was  one  which 
it  gave  you  a  sense  of  rest  to  look  upon,  —  it  was 
so  earnest,  tender,  true,  and  strong.  It  had  little 
comeliness  of  shape  or  color  in  it,  it  was  thin,  and 
pale  ;  she  was  not  young  ;  she  had  worked  hard  ;  she 
had  evidently  been  much  ill ;  but  I  have  seen  few 
faces  which  gave  me  such  pleasure.  I  think  that  she 
was  the  wife  of  a  poor  clergyman  ;  and  I  think  that 
clergyman  must  be  one  of  the  Lord's  best  watchmen 
of  souls.  The  children  —  two  boys  and  two  girls  — 
5 


66  BITS  OF  TALK. 

were  all  under  the  age  of  twelve,  and  the  youngest 
could  not  speak  plainly.  They  had  had  a  rare  treat ; 
they  had  been  visiting  the  mountains,  and  they  were 
talking  over  all  the  wonders  they  had  seen  with  a  glow 
of  enthusiastic  delight  which  was  to  be  envied.  Only 
a  word-for-word  record  would  do  justice  to  their  con 
versation  ;  no  description  could  give  any  idea  of  it,  — • 
so  free,  so  pleasant,  so  genial,  no  interruptions,  no 
contradictions  ;  and  the  mother's  part  borne  all  the 
while  with  such  equal  interest  and  eagerness  that  no 
one  not  seeing  her  face  would  dream  that  she  was  any 
other  than  an  elder  sister.  In  the  course  of  the  day 
there  were  many  occasions  when  it  was  necessary  for 
her  to  deny  requests,  and  to  ask  services,  especially 
from  the  eldest  boy  ;  but  no  young  girl,  anxious  to 
please  a  lover,  could  have  done  either  with  a  more 
tender  courtesy.  She  had  her  reward  ;  for  no  lover 
could  have  been  more  tender  and  manly  than  was  this 
boy  of  twelve.  Their  lunch  was  simple  and  scanty ; 
but  it  had  the  grace  of  a  royal  banquet.  At  the  last, 
the  mother  produced  with  much  glee  three  apples  and 
an  orange,  of  which  the  children  had  not  known.  All 
eyes  fastened  on  the  orange.  It  was  evidently  a 
great  rarity.  I  watched  to  see  if  this  test  would  bring 
out  selfishness.  There  was  a  little  silence  ;  just  the 
shade  of  a  cloud.  The  mother  said,  u  How  shall  I 
divide  this  ?  There  is  one  for  each  of  you  ;  and  I 
shall  be  best  off  of  all,  for  I  expect  big  tastes  from 
each  of  you." 

"  Oh,  give  Annie  the  orange.   Annie  loves  oranges,' 


A  DAY  WITH  A  COURTEOUS  MOTHER.    67 

spoke  out  the  oldest  boy,  with  a  sudden  air  of  a  con 
queror,  and  at  the  same  time  taking  the  smallest  and 
worst  apple  himself. 

"  Oh,  yes,  let  Annie  have  the  orange,"  echoed  the 
second  boy,  nine  years  old. 

"  Yes,  Annie  may  have  the  orange,  because  that  is 
nicer  than  the  apple,  and  she  is  a  lady,  and  her  broth 
ers  are  gentlemen,"  said  the  mother,  quietly.  Then 
there  was  a  merry  contest  as  to  who  should  feed  the 
mother  with  largest  and  most  frequent  mouthfuls  ;  and 
so  the  feast  went  on.  Then  Annie  pretended  to  want 
apple,  and  exchanged  thin  golden  strips  of  orange  for 
bites  out  of  the  cheeks  of  Baldwins  ;  and,  as  I  sat 
watching  her  intently,  she  suddenly  fancied  she  saw 
longing  in  my  face,  and  sprang  over  to  me,  holding 
out  a  quarter  of  her  orange,  and  saying,  "  Don't  you 
want  a  taste,  too  ?  "  The  mother  smiled,  understand- 
ingly,  when  I  said,  "  No,  I  thank  you,  you  dear,  gener 
ous  little  girl ;  I  don't  care  about  oranges." 

At  noon  we  had  a  tedious  interval  of  waiting  at  a 
dreary  station.  We  sat  for  two  hours  on  a  narrow 
platform,  which  the  sun  had  scorched  till  it  smelt  of 
heat.  The  oldest  boy  —  the  little  lover  —  held  the 
youngest  child,  and  talked  to  her,  while  the  tired 
mother  closed  her  eyes  and  rested.  Now  and  then  he 
looked  over  at  her,  and  then  back  at  the  baby  ;  and  at 
last  he  said  confidentially  to  me  (for  we  had  become 
fast  friends  by  this  time),  "  Isn't  it  funny,  to  think  that 
I  was  ever  so  small  as  this  baby  ?  And  papa  says  that 
then  mamma  was  almost  a  little  girl  herself." 


68  t  BITS  OF  TALK. 

The  two  other  children  were  toiling  up  and  down 
the  banks  of  the  railroad-track,  picking  ox-eye  daisies, 
buttercups,  and  sorrel.  They  worked  like  beavers, 
and  soon  the  bunches  were  almost  too  big  for  their 
little  hands.  Then  they  came  running  to  give  them  to 
their  mother.  "  Oh  dear,"  thought  I,  "  how  that  poor, 
tired  woman  will  hate  to  open  her  eyes  !  and  she  never 
can  take  those  great  bunches  of  common,  fading  flow 
ers,  in  addition  to  all  her  bundles  and  bags."  I  was 
mistaken. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  my  darlings !  How  kind  you 
were  !  Poor,  hot,  tired  little  flowers,  how  thirsty  they 
look!  If  they  will  only  try  and  keep  alive  till  we  get 
home,  we  will  make  them  very  happy  in  some  water  ; 
won't  we  ?  And  you  shall  put  one  bunch  by  papa's 
plate,  and  one  by  mine." 

Sweet  and  happy,  the  weary  and  flushed  little  chil 
dren  stood  looking  up  in  her  face  while .  she  talked, 
their  hearts  thrilling  with  compassion  for  the  drooping 
flowers  and  with  delight  in  the  giving  of  their  gift. 
Then  she  took  great  trouble  to  get  a  string  and  tie"  up 
the  flowers,  and  then  the  train  came,  and  we  were 
whirling  along  again.  Soon  it  grew  dark,  and  little 
Annie's  head  nodded.  Then  I  heard  the  mother  say 
to  the  oldest  boy,  "  Dear,  are  you  too  tired  to  let  little 
Ann;e  put  her  head  on  your  shoulder  and  take  a  nap  ? 
We  shall  get  her  home  in  much  better  case  to  see 
papa  if  we  can  manage  to  give  her  a  little  sleep.1'  How 
many  boys  of  twelve  hear  such  words  as  these  from 
tired,  overburdened  mothers  ? 


A  DAY  WITH  A  COURTEOUS  MOTHER.    69 

Soon  came  the  city,  the  final  station,  with  its  bustle 
and  noise.  I  lingered  to  watch  my  happy  family, 
hoping  to  see  the  father.  "  Why,  papa  isn't  here  !  " 
exclaimed  one  disappointed  little  voice  after  another. 
"  Never  mind,"  said  the  mother,  with  a  still  deeper 
disappointment  in  her  own  tone  ;  "perhaps  he  had  to 
go  to  see  some  poor  body  who  is  sick."  In  the  hurry 
of  picking  up  all  the  parcels,  and  the  sleepy  babies, 
the  poor  daisies  and  buttercups  were  left  forgotten  in 
a  corner  of  the  rack.  I  wondered  if  the  mother  had 
not  intended  this.  May  I  be  forgiven  for  the  injus 
tice  !  A  few  minutes  after  I  passed  the  little  group, 
standing  still  just  outside  the  station,  and  heard  the 
mother  say,  "  Oh,  my  darlings,  I  have  forgotten  your 
pretty  bouquets.  I  am  so  sorry  !  I  wonder  if  I  could 
find  them  if  I  went  back.  Will  you  all  stand  still  and 
not  stir  from  this  spot  if  I  go  ?  " 

"  Oh,  mamma,  don't  go,  don't  go.  We  will  get  you 
some  more.  Don't  go,"  cried  all  the  children. 

"  Here  are  your  flowers,  madam,"  said  I.  "  I  saw 
that  you  had  forgotten  them,  and  I  took  them  as  me 
mentoes  of  you  and  your  sweet  children."  She  blushed 
and  looked  disconcerted.  She  was  evidently  unused 
to  people,  and  shy  with  all  but  her  children.  How 
ever,  she  thanked  me  sweetly,  and  said,  — 

"  I  was  very  sorry  about  them.  The  children  took 
such  trouble  to  get  them  ;  and  I  think  they  will  revive 
in  water.  They  cannot  be  quite  dead.1' 

"  They  will  never  die  !  "  said  I,  with  an  emphasis 
which  went  from  my  heart  to  hers.  Then  all  her  shy- 


70  BITS  OF  TALK. 

ness  fled.  She  knew  me ;  and  we  shook  hands,  and 
smiled  into  each  other's  eyes  with  the  smile  of  kindred 
as  we  parted. 

As   I  followed  on,  I  heard  the  two  children,  who 
were  walking  behind,  saying  to  each  other,  "  Wouldn't  • 
that  have  been  too  bad  ?    Mamma  liked  them  so  much, 
and  we  never  could  have  got  so  many  all   at  once 
again." 

"  Yes,  we  could,  too,  next  summer,"  said  the  boy, 
sturdily. 

They  are  sure  of  their  "  next  summers,"  I  think,  all 
six  of  those  souls,  —  children,  and  mother,  and  father. 
They  may  never  again  gather  so  many  ox-eye  daisies 
and  buttercups  "  all  at  once."  Perhaps  some  of  the 
little  hands  have  already  picked  their  last  flowers. 
Nevertheless,  their  summers  are  certain.  To  such 
souls  as  these,  all  trees,  either  here  or  in  God's  larger 
country,  are  Trees  of  Life,  with  twelve  manner  of  fruits 
and  leaves  for  healing  ;  and  it  is  but  little  change  from 
the  summers  here,  whose  suns  burn  and  make  weary, 
to  the  summers  there,  of  which  "the  Lamb  is  the 
light." 

Heaven  bless  them  all,  wherever  they  are. 


CHILDREN  IN  NOVA   SCOTIA.  7l 


CHILDREN  IN  NOVA   SCOTIA. 

TVTOVA  SCOTIA  is  a  country  of  gracious  surprises. 
-*-^  Instead  of  the  stones  which  are  what  strangers 
chiefly  expect  at  her  hands,  she  gives  us  a  wealth  of 
fertile  meadows  ;  instead  of  stormy  waves  breaking  on 
a  frowning  coast,  she  shows  us  smooth  basins  whose 
shores  are  soft  and  wooded  to  the  water's  edge,  and 
into  which  empty  wonderful  tidal  rivers,  whose  courses, 
where  the  tide-water  has  flowed  out,  lie  like  curving 
bands  of  bright  brown  satin  among  the  green  fields. 
She  has  no  barrenness,  no  unsightliness,  no  poverty ; 
everywhere  beauty,  everywhere  riches.  She  is  biding 
her  time. 

But  most  beautiful  among  her  beauties,  most  won 
derful  among  her  wonders,  are  her  children.  During 
two  weeks'  travel  in  the  provinces,  I  have  been  con 
stantly  more  and  more  impressed  by  their  superiority 
in  appearance,  size,  and  health  to  the  children  of  the 
New  England  and  Middle  States.  In  the  outset  of  our 
journey  I  was  struck  by  it ;  along  all  the  roadsides  they 
looked  up,  boys  and  girls,  fair,  broad-cheeked,  sturdy- 
legged,  such  as  with  us  are  seen  only  now  and  the.n. 
I  did  not,  however,  realize  at  first  that  this  was  the 
universal  law  of  the  land,  and  that  it  pointed  to  some- 


72  BITS   OF  TALK. 

thing  mb're  than  climate  as  a  cause.  But  the  first  school 
that  I  saw,  en  masse,  gave  a  startling  impetus  to  the 
train  of  observation  and  inference  into  which  I  was 
unconsciously  falling.  It  was  a  Sunday  school  in  the 
little  town  of  Wolfville,  which  lies  between  the  Gasp- 
creau  and  Cornwallis  rivers,  just  beyond  the  meadows 
of  the  Grand  Pre,  where  lived  Gabriel  Lajeunesse,  and 
Benedict  Bellefontaine,  and  the  rest  of  the  "simple 
Acadian  farmers." 

"  Mists  from  the  mighty  Atlantic  "  more  than  "looked 
on  the  happy  valley1'  that  Sunday  morning.  Convict 
ing  Longfellow  of  a  mistake,  they  did  descend  "from 
their  stations,"  on  solemn  Blomidon,  and  fell  in  a  slow, 
unpleasant  drizzle  in  the  streets  of  Wolfville  and  Hor- 
ton.  I  arrived  too  early  at  one  of  the  village  churches, 
and  while  I  was  waiting  for  a  sexton  a  door  opened, 
and  out  poured  the  Sunday  school,  whose  services  had 
just  ended.  On  they  came,  dividing  in  the  centre,  and 
falling  to  the  right  and  left  about  me,  thirty  or  forty 
boys  and  girls,  between  the  ages  of  seven  and  fifteen. 
I  looked  at  them  in  astonishment.  They  all  had  fair 
skins,  red  cheeks,  and  clear  eyes ;  they  were  all  broad- 
shouldered,  straight,  and  sturdy ;  the  younger  ones 
were  more  than  sturdy,  —  they  were  fat,  from  the  ankles 
up.  But  perhaps  the  most  noticeable  thing  of  all  was 
the  quiet,  sturdy,  unharassed  expression  which  their 
faces  wore ;  a  look  which  is  the  greatest  charm  of  a 
child's  face,  but  which  we  rarely  see  in  children  over 
two  or  three  years  old.  Boys  of  eleven  or  twelve  were 
there,  with  shoulders  broader  than  the  average  of  our 


CHILDREN  IN  NOVA  SCOTIA.  73 

boys  at  sixteen,  and  yet  with  the  pure,  childlike  look 
on  their  faces.  'Girls  of  ten  or  eleven  were  there  who 
looked  almost  like  women,  —  that  is,  like  ideal  women, 
—  simply  because  they  looked  so  calm  and  undis 
turbed.  The  Saxon  coloring  prevailed ;  three-fourths 
of  the  eyes  were  blue,  with  hair  of  that  pale  ash-brown 
which  the  French  call  "blonde  cendree"  Out  of  them 
all  there  was  but  one  child  who  looked  sickly.  He  had 
evidently  met  with  some  accident,  and  was  lame.  After 
ward,  as  the  congregation  assembled,  I  watched  the 
fathers  and  mothers  of  these  children.  They,  too, 
were  broad-shouldered,  tall,  and  straight,  especially  the 
women.  Even  old  women  were  straight,  like  the  negroes 
one  sees  at  the  South,  walking  with  burdens  on  their 
heads. 

Five  days  later  I  saw  in  Halifax  the  celebration  of 
the  anniversary  of  the  settlement  of  the  province.  The 
children  of  the  city  and  of  some  of  the  neighboring 
towns  marched  in  "  bands  of  hope "  and  processions, 
such  as  we  see  in  the  cities  of  the  States  on  the  Fourth 
of  July.  This  was  just  the  opportunity  I  wanted.  It 
was  the  same  here  as  in  the  country.  I  counted  on  that 
day  just  eleven  sickly-looking  children  ;  no  more  !  Such 
brilliant  cheeks,  such  merry  eyes,  such  evident  strength ; 
it  was  a  scene  to  kindle  the  dullest  soul.  There  were 
scores  of  little  ones  there,  whose  droll,  fat  legs  would 
have  drawn  a  crowd  in  Central  Park ;  and  they  all  had 
that  same,  quiet,  composed,  well-balanced  expression 
of  countenance  of  which  I  spoke  before,  and  of  which  it 
would  be  hard  to  find  an  instance  in  all  Central  Park. 


74  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Climate  undoubtedly  has  something  to  do  with  this. 
The  air  is  moist,  and  the  mercury  rarely  rises  above 
80°  or  falls  below  10°.  Also  the  comparative  quiet  of 
their  lives  helps  to  make  them  so  beautiful  and  strong. 
But  the  most  significant  fact  to  my  mind  is  that,  until 
the  past  year,  there  have  been  in  Nova  Scotia  no  pub 
lic  schools,  comparatively  few  private  ones ;  and  in 
these  there  is  no  severe  pressure  brought  to  bear  on 
the  pupils.  The  private  schools  have  been  expensive, 
consequently  it  has  been  very  unusual  for  children  to 
be  sent  to  school  before  they  were  eight  or  nine  years 
of  age  ;  I  could  not  find  a  person  who  had  ever  known 
of  a  child's  being  sent  to  school  under  seven  !  The 
school  sessions  are  on  the  old  plan  of  six  hours  per 
day,  —  from  nine  till  twelve,  and  from  one  till  four ;  but 
no  learning  of  lessons  out  of  school  has  been  allowed. 
Within  the  last  year  a  system  of  free  public  schools 
has  been  introduced,  "and  the  people  are  grumbling 
terribly  about  it,"  said  my  informant.  "Why?"  I 
asked ;  "  because  they  do  not  wish  to  have  their  chil 
dren  educated?"  "Oh,  no,"  said  he;  "because  they 
do  not  like  to  pay  the  taxes  !  "  "  Alas  !  "  I  thought, 
"if  it  were  only  their  silver  which  would  be  taxed  !  " 

I  must  not  be  understood  to  argue  from  the  health 
of  the  children  of  Nova  Scotia,  as  contrasted  with  the 
lack  of  health  among  our  children,  that  it  is  best  to 
have  no  public  schools  ;  only  that  it  is  better  to  have 
no  public  schools  than  to  have  such  public  schools  as 
are  now  killing  off  our  children. 

The  registration  system  of  Nova  Scotia  is  as  yet 


CHILDREN  IN  NOVA  SCOTIA.  75 

imperfectly  carried  out.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  ob 
tain  exact  returns  from  all  parts  of  so  thinly  settled  a 
country.  But  such  statistics  as  have  been  already 
established  give  sufficient  food  for  reflection  in  this 
connection.  In  Massachusetts  more  than  two-fifths  of 
all  the  children  born  die  before  they  are  twelve  years 
old.  In  Nova  Scotia  the  proportion  is  less  than  one- 
third.  In  Nova  Scotia  one  out  of  every  fifty-six  lives 
to  be  over  ninety  years  of  age  ;  and  one-twelfth  of  the 
entire  number  of  deaths  is  between  the  ages  of  eighty 
and  ninety.  In  Massachusetts  one  person  out  of  one 
hundred  and  nine  lives  to  be  over  ninety. 

In  Massachusetts  the  mortality  from  diseases  of  the 
brain  and  nervous  system  is  eleven  per  cent.  In  Nova 
Scotia  it  is  only  eight  per  cent. 


76  BITS  OF  TALK. 


THE  REPUBLIC   OF   THE  FAMILY. 

"  TTE  is  lover  and  friend  and  son,  all  in  one,"  said 
"•  a  friend,  the  other  day,  telling  me  of  a  dear 
boy  who,  out  of  his  first  earnings,  had  just  sent  to  his 
mother  a  beautiful  gift,  costing  much  more  than  he 
could  really  afford  for  such  a  purpose. 

That  mother  is  the  wisest,  sweetest,  most  triumphant 
mother  I  have  ever  known.  I  am  restrained  by  feel 
ings  of  deepest  reverence  for  her  from  speaking,  as  I 
might  speak,  of  the  rare  and  tender  methods  by  which 
her  motherhood  has  worked,  patiently  and  alone,  for 
nearly  twenty  years,  and  made  of  her  two  sons  "  lovers 
and  friends."  I  have  always  felt  that  she  owed  it  to 
the  world  to  impart  to  other  mothers  all  that  she  could 
of  her  divine  secret ;  to  write  out,  even  in  detail,  all 
the  processes  by  which  her  boys  have  grown  to  be  so 
strong,  upright,  loving,  and  manly. 

But  one  of  her  first  principles  has  so  direct  a  bear 
ing  on  the  subject  that  I  wish  to  speak  of  here  that  I 
venture  to  attempt  an  explanation  of  it.  She  has  told 
me  that  she  never  once,  even  in  their  childish  days, 
took  the  ground  that  she  had  right  to  require  any  thing 
from  them  simply  because  she  was  their  mother.  This 


THE  REPUBLIC  OF  THE  FAMILY.        77 

is  a  position  very  startling  to  the  average  parent.  It  is 
exactly  counter  to  traditions. 

"Why  must  I?"  or  "Why  cannot  I?"  says  the 
child.  "  Because  I  say  so,  and  I  am  your  father,"  has 
been  the  stern,  authoritative  reply  ever  since  we  can 
any  of  us  remember ;  and,  I  presume,  ever  since  the 
Christian  era,  since  that  good  Apostle  Paul  saw  enough 
in  the  Ephesian  families  where  he  visited  to  lead  him 
to  write  to  them  from  Rome,  "  Fathers,  provoke  not 
your  children  to  wrath." 

It  seems  to  me  that  there  are  few  questions  of  prac 
tical  moment  in  every-day  living  on  which  a  foregone 
and  erroneous  conclusion  has  been  adopted  so  gener 
ally  and  so  undoubtingly.  How  it  first  came  about  it 
is  hard  to  see.  Or,  rather,  it  is  easy  to  see,  when  one 
reflects ;  and  the  very  clearness  of  the  surface  expla 
nation  of  it  only  makes  its  injustice  more  odious.  It 
came  about  because  the  parent  was  strong  and  the 
child  weak.  Helplessness  in  the  hands  of  power, — 
that  is  the  whole  story.  Suppose  for  an  instant  (and, 
absurd  as  the  supposition  is  practically,  it  is  not  logi 
cally  absurd),  that  the  child  at  six  were  strong  enough 
to  whip  his  father ;  let  him  have  the  intellect  of  an  in 
fant,  the  mistakes  and  the  faults  of  an  infant,  —  which 
the  father  would  feel  himself  bound  and  would  be  bound 
to  correct,  —  but  the  body  of  a  man  ;  and  then  see  in 
how  different  fashion  the  father  would  set  himself  to 
work  to  insure  good  behavior.  I  never  see  the  heavy, 
impatient  hand  of  a  grown  man  or  woman  laid  with  its 


78  BITS  OF  TALK. 

brute  force,  even  for  the  smallest  purpose,  on  a  little 
child,  without  longing  for  a  sudden  miracle  to  give  the 
baby  an  equal  strength  to  resist. 

When  we  realize  what  it  is  for  us  to  dare,  for  our 
own  .pleasure,  even  with  solemnest  purpose  of  the 
holiest  of  pleasures,  parenthood,  to  bring  into  exist 
ence  a  soul,  which  must  take  for  our  sake  its  chance  of 
joy  or  sorrow,  how  monstrous  it  seems  to  assume 
that  the  fact  that  we  have  done  this  thing  gives  us  ar 
bitrary  right  to  control  that  soul ;  to  set  our  will,  as 
will,  in  place  of  its  will ;  to  be  law  unto  its  life  ;  to  try 
to  make  of  it  what  it  suits  our  fancy  or  our  con 
venience  to  have  it ;  to  claim  that  it  is  under  obliga 
tion  to  us  ! 

The  truth  is,  all  the  obligation,  in  the  outset,  is  the 
other  way.  We  owe  all  to  them.  All  that  we  can  do 
to  give  them  happiness,  to  spare  them  pain ;  all  that 
we  can  do  to  make  them  wise  and  good  and  safe,  — all 
is  too  little !  All  and  more  than  all  can  never  repay 
them  for  the  sweetness,  the  blessedness,  the  develop 
ment  that  it  has  been  to  us  to  call  children  ours.  If 
we  can  also  so  win  their  love  by  our  loving,  so  deserve 
their  respect  by  our  honorableness,  so  earn  their  grati 
tude  by  our  helpfulness,  that  they  come  to  be  our 
"lovers  and  friends,"  then,  ah!  then  we  have  had 
enough  of  heaven  here  to  make  us  willing  to  postpone 
the  more  for  which  we  hope  beyond  ! 

But  all  this  comes  not  of  authority,  not  by  command  ; 
all  this  is  perilled  always,  always  impaired,  and  often 


THE  REPUBLIC  OF  THE  FAMILY.         79 

lost,  by  authoritative,  arbitrary  ruling,  substitution  of 
law  and  penalty  for  influence. 

It  will  be  objected  by  parents  who  disagree  with  this 
theory  that  only  authority  can  prevent  license ;  that 
without  command  there  will  not  be  control.  No  one 
has  a  right  to  condemn  methods  he  has  not  tried.  I 
know,  for  I  have  seen,  I  know,  for  I  have  myself  tested, 
that  command  and  authority  are  short-lived  ;  that  they 
do  not  insure  the  results  they  aim  at  ;•  that  real  and 
permanent  control  of  a  child's  behavior,  even  in  little 
things,  is  gained  only  by  influence,  by  a  slow,  sure 
educating,  enlightening,  and  strengthening  of  a  child's 
will.  I  know,  for  I  have  seen,  that  it  is  possible  in  this 
way  to  make  a  child  only  ten  years  old  quite  as  intelligent 
and  trustworthy  a  free  agent  as  his  mother ;  to  make 
him  so  sensible,  so  gentle,  so  considerate  that  to  say 
"must"  or  "must  not"  to  him  would  be  as  unneces 
sary  and  absurd  as  to  say  it  to  her. 

But,  if  it  be  wiser  and  better  to  surround  even  little 
children  with  this  atmosphere  of  freedom,  how  much 
more  essential  is  it  for  those  who  remain  under  the 
parental  roof  long  after  they  have  ceased  to  be  chil 
dren  !  Just  here  seems  to  me  to  be  the  fatal  rock  upon 
which  many  households  make  utter  shipwreck  of  their 
peace.  Fathers  and  mothers  who  have  ruled  by  au 
thority  (let  it  be  as  loving  as  you  please,  it  will  still 
remain  an  arbitrary  rule)  in  the  beginning,  never  seem 
to  know  when  their  children  are  children  no  longer, 
but  have  become  men  and  women.  In  any  average 
family,  the  position  of  an  unmarried  daughter  after  she 


So  BITS  OF  TALK. 

is  twenty  years  old  becomes  less  and  less  what  it  should 
be.  In  case  of  sons,  the  question  is  rarely  a  practical 
one ;  in  those  exceptional  instances  where  invalidism 
or  some  other  disability  keeps  a  man  helpless  for  years 
under  his  father's  roof,  his  very  helplessness  is  at  once 
his  vindication  and  his  shield,  and  also  prevents  his 
feeling  manly  revolt  against  the  position  of  unnatural 
childhood.  But  in  the  case  of  daughters  it  is  very  dif 
ferent.  Who  does  not  number  in  his  circle  of  ac 
quaintance  many  unmarried  women,  between  the  ages 
of  thirty  and  forty,  perhaps  even  older,  who  have  prac 
tically  little  more  freedom  in  the  ordering  of  their  own 
lives  than  they  had  when  they  were  eleven  ?  The 
mother  or  the  father  continues  just  as  much  the 
autocratic  centre  of  the  family  now  as  of  the  nursery, 
thirty  years  before.  Taking  into  account  the  chance 
—  no,  the  certainty  —  of  great  differences  between 
parents  and  children  in  matters  of  temperament  and 
taste,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  great  suffering  must  result 
from  this ;  suffering,  too,  which  involves  real  loss  and 
hindrance  to  growth.  It  is  really  a  monstrous  wrong  ; 
but  it  seems  to  be  rarely  observed  by  the  world,  and 
never  suspected  by  those  who  are  most  responsible  for 
it.  It  is  perhaps  a  question  whether  the  real  tyrannies 
in  this  life  are  those  that  are  accredited  as  such.  There 
are  certainly  more  than  even  tyrants  know ! 

Every  father  and  mother  has  it  within  easy  reach  to 
become  the  intimate  friend  of  the  child.  Closest, 
holiest,  sweetest  of  all  friendships  is  this  one,  which 
has  the  closest,  holiest  tie  of  blood  to  underlie  the 


THE  REPUBLIC   OF   THE  FAMILY.        8 1 

bond  of  soul.  We  see  it  in  rare  cases,  proving  itself 
divine  by  rising  above  even  the  passion  of  love  be 
tween  man  and  woman,  and  carrying  men  and  women 
unwedded  to  their  graves  for  sake  of  love  of  mother  or 
father.  When  we  realize  what  such  friendship  is,  it 
seems  incredible  that  parents  can  forego  it,  or  can 
risk  losing  any  shade  of  its  perfectness,  for  the  sake 
of  any  indulgence  of  the  habit  of  command  or  of  grati 
fying  of  selfish  preference. 

In  the  ideal  household  of  father  and  mother  and 
adult  children,  the  one  great  aim  of  the  parents  ought 
to  be  to  supply,  as  far  as  possible  to  each  child,  that 
freedom  and  independence  which  they  have  missed 
the  opportunity  of  securing  in  homes  of  their  own. 
The  loss  of  this  one  thing  alone  is  a  bitterer  drop  in 
the  loneliness  of  many  an  unmarried  woman  than 
parents,  especially  fathers,  are  apt  even  to  dream,  — 
food  and  clothes  and  lodgings  are  so  exalted  in  un 
thinking  estimates.  To  be  without  them  would  be 
distressingly  inconvenient,  no  doubt ;  but  one  can  have 
luxurious  provision  of  both  and  remain  very  wretched. 
Even  the  body  itself  cannot  thrive  if  it  has  no  more 
than  these  three  pottage  messes  !  Freedom  to  come, 
go,  speak,  work,  play,  —  in  short,  to  be  one's  self,  — 
is  to  the  body  more  than  meat  and  gold,  and  to  the 
soul  the  whole  of  life. 

Just  so  far  as  any  parent  interferes  with  this  free 
dom  of  adult  children,  even  in  the  little  things  of  a 
single  day  or  a  single  hour,  just  so  far  it  is  tyranny, 
and  the  children  are  wronged.  But  just  so  far  as 
6 


82  BITS  OF  TALK. 

parents  help,  strengthen,  and  bestow  this  freedom  on 
their  children,  just  so  far  it  is  justice  and  kindness, 
and  their  relation  is  cemented  into  a  supreme  and  un 
alterable  friendship,  whose  blessedness  and  whose 
comfort  no  words  can  measure. 


THE  READY-TO-HALTS.  83 


THE    READY-TO-HALTS. 

.  READY-TO-HALT  must  have  been  the  most 
exasperating  pilgrim  that  Great  Heart  ever 
dragged  over  the  road  to  the  Celestial  City.  Mr. 
Feeble  Mind  was  bad  enough  ;  but  genuine  weakness 
and  organic  incapacity  appeal  all  the  while  to  charity 
and  sympathy.  If  people  really  cannot  walk,  they 
must  be  carried.  Everybody  sees  that ;  and  all  strong 
people  are,  or  ought  to  be,  ready  to  lift  babies  and 
cripples.  There  are  plenty  of  such  in  every  parish; 
The  Feeble  Minds  are  unfortunately  predisposed  to 
intermarry  ;  and  our  schools  are  overrun  with  the  lit 
tle  Masters  and  Misses  Feeble  Mind.  But,  heavy  as 
they  are  (and  they  are  apt  to  be  fat),  they  are  precious 
and  pleasant  friends  and  neighbors  in  comparison  with 
the  Ready-to-Halts. 

The  Ready-to-Halts  are  never  ready  for  any  thing 
else.  They  can  walk  as  well  as  anybody  else,  if  they 
only  would  ;  but  they  are  never  quite  sure  on  which 
road  they  would  better  go.  Great  Hearts  have  to  go 
back,  and  go  back,  to  look  them  up.  They  are  found 
standing  still,  helpless  and  bewildered,  on  all  sorts  of 
absurd  side-paths,  which  lead  nowhere ;  and  they 
never  will  confess,  either,  that  they  need  help.  They 


84  BITS  OF  TALK. 

always  think  they  are  doing  what  they  call  "  making 
up  their  mind."  But,  whichever  way  they  make  it, 
they  wish  they  had  made  it  the  other  ;  so  they  unmake 
it  directly.  And  by  this  time  the  crisis  of  the  first 
hour  which  they  lost  has  become  complicated  with  that 
of  the  second  hour,  for  which  they  are  in  no  wise 
ready  ;  and  so  the  hours  stumble  on,  one  after  another, 
and  the  day  is  only  a  tangle  of  ineffective  cross  pur 
poses.  Hundreds  of  such 'days  drift  on,  with  their  sad 
burden  of  wasted  time.  Year  after  year  their  lives  fail 
of  growth,  of  delight,  of  blessing  to  others.  Oppor 
tunity's  great  golden  doors,  which  never  stay  long 
open  for  any  man,  have  always  just  closed  when 
they  reach  the  threshold  of  a  deed  ;  and  it  is  hard, 
very  hard,  to  see  why  it  would  not  have  been  better 
for  them  if  they  had  never  been  born. 

After  all,  it  is  not  right  to  be  impatient  with  them  ; 
for,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  they  are  no  more  respon 
sible  for  their  mental  limp  than  the  poor  Chinese 
woman  is  for  her  feeble  feet.  From  their  infancy  up 
to  what  in  our  comic  caricature  of  words  we  call  "  ma 
turity,"  they  have  been  bandaged.  How  should  their 
muscles  be  good  for  any  thing  ?  From  the  day  when 
we  give,  and  take,  and  arrange  the  baby's  playthings 
for  him,  hour  by  hour,  without  ever  setting  before  him 
to  choose  one  of  two  and  give  up  the  other,  to  the  day 
when  we  take  it  upon  ourselves  to  decide  whether  he 
shall  be  an  engineer  or  a  lawyer,  we  persist  in  doing 
for  him  the  work  which  he  should  do  for  himself. 
This  is  because  we  love  him  more  than  we  love  our 


THE  READY-TO-HALTS.  85 

own  lives.  Oh  !  if  love  could  but  have  its  eyes  opened 
and  see  !  If  we  were  not  blind,  we  should  know  that 
whenever  a  child  decides  for  himself  deliberately,  and 
without  bias  from  others,  any  question,  however  small, 
he  has  had  just  so  many  minutes  of  mental  gymnastics, 
—  just  so  much  strengthening  of  the  one  faculty  on 
whose  health  and  firmness  his  success  in  life  will  de 
pend  more  than  upon  any  other  thing. 

So  many  people  do  not  know  the  difference  between 
obstinacy  and  clear-headed  firmness  of  will,  that  it  is 
hardly  safe  to  say  much  in  praise  or  blame  of  either 
without  expressly  stating  that  you  do  not  mean  the 
other.  They  are  as  unlike  as  digestion  and  indiges 
tion,  and  one  would  suppose  could  not  be  much  more 
easily  confounded  ;  but  it  is  constantly  done.  It  has  not 
yet  ceased  to  be  said  among  fathers  and  mothers  that 
it  is  necessary  to  "  break  the  will  "  of  children  ;  and  it 
has  not  yet  ceased  to  be  seen  in  the  land  that  men  by 
virtue  of  simple  obstinacy  are  called  men  of  strong 
character.  The  truth  is  that  the  stronger,  better- 
trained  will  a  man  has,  the  less  obstinate  he  will  be. 
Will  is  of  reason  ;  obstinacy,  of  temper.  What  have 
they  in  common  ? 

For  want  of  strong  will  kingdoms  and  souls  have 
been  lost.  Without  it  there  is  no  kingdom  for  any 
man,  —  no,  not  even  in  his  own  soul.  It  is  the  one 
attribute  of  all  we  possess  which  is  most  *God-like. 
By  it,  we  say,  .under  his  laws,  as  he  says,  enacting 
those  laws,  "  So  far  and  no  further."  It  is  not  enough 
that  we  do  not  "break"  this  grand  power.  It  should 


86  BITS  OF  TALK. 

be  strengthened,  developed,  trained.  And,  as  the 
good  teacher  of  gymnastics  gives  his  beginners  light 
weights  to  lift  and  swing,  so  should  we  bring  to  the 
children  small  points  to  decide  ;  to  the  very  little  chil 
dren,  very  little  points.  "  Will  you  have  the  apple,  or 
the  orange  ?  You  cannot  have  both.  Choose  ;  but 
after  you  have  chosen  you  cannot  change."  "  Will 
you  have  the  horseback  ride  to-day,  or  the  opera  to 
morrow  night  ?  You  can  have  but  one." 

Every  day,  many  times  a  day,  a  child  should  decide 
for  himself  points  involving  pros  and  cons,  —  substan 
tial  ones  too.  Let  him  even  decide  unwisely,  and  take 
the  consequences  ;  that  too  is  good  for  him.  No 
amount  of  Blackstone  can  give  such  an  idea  of  law  as 
a  month  of  prison.  Tell  him  as  much  as  you  please 
of  what  you  know  on  both  sides  ;  but  compel  him  to 
decide,  and  also  compel  him  not  to  be  too  long  about 
it.  "  Choose  ye  this  day  whom  ye  will  serve  "  is  a 
text  good  for  every  morning. 

If  men  and  women  had  in  their  childhood  such 
training  of  their  wills  as  this,  we  should  not  see  so 
many  putting  their  hands  to  the  plough  and  looking 
back,  and  "not  fit  for  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  Nor 
for  any  kingdom  of  earth,  either,  unless  it  be  for  the 
wicked  little  kingdom  of  the  Prince  of  Monaco,  where 
there  are  but  two  things  to  be  done,  —  gamble,  or 
drown  yourself 


THE  DESCENDANTS  OF  NABAL.          87 


THE  DESCENDANTS  OF  NABAL. 

E  line  has  never  been  broken,  and  they  have 
married  into  respectable  families,  right  and  left, 
until  to-day  there  can  hardly  be  found  a  household 
which  has  not  at  least  one  to  worry  it. 

They  are  not  men  and  women  of  great  passionate 
natures,  who  flame  out  now  and  then  in  an  outbreak 
like  a  volcano,  from  which  everybody  runs.  This,  though 
terrible  while  it  lasts,  is  soon  over,  and  there  are  great 
compensations  in  such  souls.  Their  love  is  worth  hav 
ing.  Their  tenderness  is  great.  One  can  forgive  them 
"  seventy  times  seven,"  for  the  hasty  words  and  actions 
of  which  they  repent  immediately  with  tears. 

But  the  Nabals  are  sullen  ;  they  are  grumblers  ;  they 
are  never  done.  Such  sons  of  Belial  are  they  to  this 
day  that  no  man  can  speak  peaceably  unto  them.  They 
are  as  much  worse  than  passionate  people  as  a  slow 
drizzle  of  rain  is  than  a  thunder-storm.  For  the  thun 
der-storm,  you  stay  in-doors,  and  you  cannot  help  hav 
ing  pleasure  in  its  sharp  lights  and  darks  and  echoes  ; 
and  when  it  is  over,  what  clear  air,  what  a  rainbow ! 
But  in  the  drizzle,  you  go  out ;  you  think  that  with  a 
waterproof,  an  umbrella,  and  overshoes,  you  can  man- 


88  BITS  OF  TALK. 

^age  to  get  about  in  spite  of  it,  and  attend  to  your  busi 
ness.  What  a  state  you  come  home  in,  —  muddy,  limp, 
chilled,  disheartened  !  The  house  greets  you,  looking 
also  muddy  and  cold,  —  for  the  best  of  front  halls  gives 
up  in  despair  and  cannot  look  any  thing  but  forlorn 
in  a  long,  drizzling  rain ;  all  the  windows  are  bleared 
with  trickling,  foggy  wet  on  the  outside,  which  there  is 
no  wiping  off  nor  seeing  through,  and  if  one  could  see 
through  there  is  no  gain.  The  street  is  more  gloomy 
than  the  house  ;  black,  slimy  mud,  inches  deep  on  cross 
ings  ;  the  same  black,  slimy  mud  in  footprints  on  side 
walks  ;  hopeless-looking  people  hurrying  by,  so  unhappy 
by  reason  of  the  drizzle  that  a  weird  sort  of  family  like 
ness  is 'to  be  seen  in  all  their  faces.  Thisjs  all  that 
can  be  seen  outside.  It  is  better  not  to  look.  For  the 
inside  is  no  redemption  except  a  wood-fire,  —  a  good, 
generous  wood-fire,  —  not  in  any  of  the  modern  com 
promises  called  open  stoves,  but  on  a  broad  stone 
hearth,  with  a  big  background  of  chimney,  up  which 
the  sparks  can  go  skipping  and  creeping. 

This  can  redeem  a  drizzle ;  but  this  cannot  redeem 
a  grumbler.  Plump  he  sits  down  in  the  warmth  of  its 
very  blaze,  and  complains  that  it  snaps,  perhaps,  or  that 
it  is  oak  and  maple,  when  he  paid  for  all  hickory.  You 
can  trust  him  to  put  out  your  wood-fire  for  you  as  effect 
ually  as  a  water-spout.  And,  if  even  a  wood-fire,  bless 
it !  cannot  outshine  the  gloom  of  his  presence,  what  is 
to  happen  in  the  places  where  there  is  no  wood-fire,  on 
the  days  when  real  miseries,  big  and  little,  are  on  hand, 
to  be  made  into  mountains  of  torture  by  his  grumbling  ? 


THE  DESCENDANTS  OF  NABAL.          89 

Oh,  who  can  describe  him  ?  There  is  no  language 
which  can  do  justice  to  him  ;  no  supernatural  foresight 
which  can  predict  where  his  next  thrust  will  fall,  from 
what  unsuspected  corner  he  will  send  his  next  arrow. 
Like  death,  he  has  all  seasons  for  his  own  ;  his  inge 
nuity  is  infernal.  Whoever  tries  to  forestall  or  appease 
him  might  better  be  at  work  in  Augean  stables  ;  be 
cause,  after  all,  we  must  admit  that  the  facts  of  life  are 
on  his  side.  It  is  not  intended  that  we  shall  be  very 
comfortable.  There  is  a  terrible  amount  of  total  de 
pravity  in  animate  and  inanimate  things.  From  morn 
ing  till  night  there  is  not  an  hour  without  its  cross  to 
carry.  The  weather  thwarts  us  ;  servants,  landlords, 
drivers,  washerwomen,  and  bosom  friends  misbehave  ; 
clothes  don't  fit ;  teeth  ache ;  stomachs  get  out  of  order ; 
newspapers  are  stupid  ;  and  children  make  too  much 
noise.  If  there  are  not  big  troubles,  there  are  little 
ones.  If  they  are  not  in  sight,  they  are  hiding.  I  have 
wondered  whether  the  happiest  mortal  could  point  to 
one  single  moment  and  say,  "  At  that  moment  there 
was  nothing  in  my  life  which  I  would  have  had 
changed."  I  think  not. 

In  argument,  therefore,  the  grumbler  has  the  best 
of  it.  It  is  more  than  probable  that  things  are  as  he 
says.  But  why  say  it  ?  Why  make  four  miseries  out 
of  three  ?  If  the  three  be  already  unbearable,  so  much 
the  worse.  If  he  is  uncomfortable,  it  is  a  pity  ;  we  are 
sorry,  but  we  cannot  change  the  course  of  Nature.  We 
shall  soon  have  our  own  little  turn  of  torments,  and  we 
do  not  want  to  be  worn  out  before  it  comes  by  having 


90  BITS   OF  TALK. 

listened  to  his  ;  probably,  too,  the  very  things  of  which 
he  complains  are  pressing  just  as  heavily  on  us  as  on 
him,  — are  just  as  unpleasant  to  everybody  as  to  him. 
Suppose  everybody  did  as  he  does.  Imagine,  for  in 
stance,  a  chorus  of  grumble  from  ten  people  at  a  break 
fast-table,  all  saying  at  once,  or  immediately  after  each 
other,  "  This  coffee  is  not  fit  to  drink."  "  Really,  the 
attendance  in  this  house  is  insufferably  poor."  I  have 
sometimes  wished  to  try  this  homoeopathic  treatment 
in  a  bad  case  of  grumble.  It  sounds  as  if  it  might  work 
a  cure. 

If  you  lose  your  temper  with  the  grumbler,  and  turn 
upon  him  suddenly,  saying,  "  Oh,  do  not  spoil  all  our 
pleasure.  Do  make  the  best  of  things :  or,  at  least, 
keep  quiet !  "  then  how  aggrieved  he  is  !  how  unjust 
he  thinks  you  are  to  "  make  a  personal  matter  of  it" ! 
"  You  do  not,  surely,  suppose  I  think  you  are  respon 
sible  for  it,  do  you  ? "  he  says,  with  a  lofty  air  of  aston 
ishment  at  your  unreasonable  sensitiveness.  Of  course, 
we  do  not  suppose  he  thinks  we  are  to  blame ;  we  do 
not  take  him  to  be  a  fool  as  well  as  a  grumbler.  But 
he  speaks  to  us,  at  us,  before  us,  about  the  cause  of 
his  discomfort,  whatever  it  may  be,  precisely  as  he 
would  if  we  were  to  blame  ;  and  that  is  one  thing  which 
makes  his  grumbling  so  insufferable.  But  this  he  can 
never  be  made  to  see.  And  the  worst  of  it  is  that 
grumbling  is  contagious.  If  we  live  with  him,  we  shall, 
sooner  or  later,  in  spite  of  our  dislike  of  his  ways,  fall 
into  them ;  even  sinking  so  low,  perhaps,  before  the 
end  of  a  single  summer,  as  to  be  heard  complaining  of 


THE  DESCENDANTS  OF  NABAL.          91 

butter  at  boarding-house  tables,  which  is  the  lowest 
deep  of  vulgarity  of  grumbling.  There  is  no  help  for 
this  ;  I  have  seen  it  again  and  again.  I  have  caught 
it  myself.  One  grumbler  in  a  family  is  as  pestilent  a 
thing  as  a  diseased  animal  in  a  herd :  if  he  be  not  shut 
up  o:  killed,  the  herd  is  lost. 

But  the  grumbler  cannot  be  shut  up  or  killed,  since 
grumbling  is  not  held  to  be  a  proof  of  insanity,  nor  a 
capital  offence,  —  more's  the  pity. 

What,  then,  is  to  be  done  ?  Keep  out  of  his  way,  at 
all  costs,  if  he  be  grown  up.  If  it  be  a  child,  labor  day 
and  night,  as  you  would  with  a  tendency  to  paralysis, 
or  distortion  of  limb,  to  prevent  this  blight  on  its  life. 

It  sounds  extreme  to  say  that  a  child  should  never 
be  allowed  to  express  a  dislike  of  any  thing  which  can 
not  be  helped ;  but  I  think  it  is  true.  I  do  not  mean 
that  it  should  be  positively  forbidden  'or  punished,  but 
that  it  should  never  pass  unnoticed ;  his  attention 
should  be  invariably  called  to  its  uselessness,  and  to 
the  annoyance  it  gives  to  other  people.  Children  be 
gin  by  being  good-natured  little  grumblers  at  every 
thing  which  goes  wrong,  simply  from  the  outspoken 
ness  of  their  natures.  All  they  think  they  say  and  act. 
The  rudiments  of  good  behavior  have  to  be  chiefly 
negative  at  the  outset,  like  Punch's  advice  to  those 
about  to  marry,  —  "  Don't." 

1  The  race  of  grumblers  would  soon  die  out  if  all  chil 
dren  were  so  trained  that  never,  between  the  ages  of 
'  five  and  twelve,  did  they  utter  a  needless  complaint 
without  being  gently  reminded  that  it  was  foolish  and 


92  BITS   OF   TALK. 

disagreeable.    How  easy  for  a  good-natured  and  watch 
ful  mother  to  do  this  !     It  takes  but  a  word. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  I  wish  it  had  not  rained  to-day.  It  is  too 
bad  !  " 

"  You  do  not  really  mean  what  you  say,  my  darling. 
It  is  of  much  more  consequence  that  the  grass  should 
grow  than  that  you  should  go  out  to  play.  And  it  is 
so  silly  to  complain,  when  we  cannot  stop  its  raining." 

"  Mamma,  I  hate  this  pie." 

"  Oh  !  hush,  dear  !  Don't  say  so,  if  you  do.  You 
can  leave  it.  You  need  not  eat  it.  But  think  how  dis 
agreeable  it  sounds  to  hear  you  say  such  a  thing." 

"  Oh,  dear  !    Oh,  dear  !    I  am  too  cold." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  know  you  are.  So  is  mamma.  But 
we  shall  not  feel  any  warmer  for  saying  so.  We  must 
wait  till -the  fire  burns  better;  and  the  time  will  seem 
twice  as  long  if  we  grumble." 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  mamma  !  My  steam-engine  is  all 
spoiled.  It  won't  run.  I  hate  things  that  wind  up  !  " 

"  But,  my  dear  little  boy,  don't  grumble  so  !  What 
would  you  think  if  mamma  were  to  say,  '  Oh,  dear  !  oh, 
dear  !  My  little  boy's  stockings  are  full  of  holes.  How 
I  hate  to  mend  stockings  !  '  and,  i  Oh,  dear  !  oh,  dear ! 
My  little  boy  has  upset  my  work-box  !  I  hate  little 
boys ' ?  " 

How  they  look  steadily  into  your  eyes  for  a  minute, 
—  the  honest,  reasonable  little  souls  !  —  when  you  say 
such  things  to  them ;  and  then  run  off  with  a  laugh, 
lifted  up,  for  that  time,  by  your  fitly  spoken  words  of 
help. 


THE  DESCENDANTS  OF  NABAL.          93 

Oh !  if  the  world  could  only  stop  long  enough  for 
one  generation  of  mothers  to  be  made  all  right,  what  a 
millennium  could  be  begun  in  thirty  years  ! 

"  But,  mamma,  you  are  grumbling  yourself  at  me 
because  I  grumbled !  "  says  a  quick-witted  darling  not 
ten  years  old.  Ah  !  never  shall  any  weak  spot  in  our 
armor  escape  the  keen  eyes  of  these  little  ones. 

"  Yes,  dear !  And  I  shall  grumble  at  you  till  I  cure 
you  of  grumbling.  Grumblers  are  the  only  thing  in 
this  world  that  it  is  right  to  grumble  at." 


94  BITS  OF  TALK. 


"BOYS  NOT  ALLOWED." 

TT  was  a  conspicuous  signboard,  at  least  four  feet 
•*•  long,  with  large  black  letters  on  a  white  ground : 
"  Boys  not  allowed."  I  looked  at  it  for  some  moments 
in  a  sort  of  bewildered  surprise :  I  did  not  quite 
comprehend  the  meaning  of  the  words.  At  last  I  un 
derstood  it.  I  was  waiting  in  a  large  railway  station, 
where  many  trains  connect ;  and  most  of  the  passen 
gers  from  the  train  in  which  I  was  were  eating  dinner 
in  a  hotel  near  by.  I  was  entirely  alone  in  the  car, 
with  the  exception  of  one  boy,  who  was  perhaps  eleven 
years  old.  I  made  an  involuntary  ejaculation  as  I  read 
the  words  on  the  sign,  and  the  boy  looked  around  at 
me. 

"Little  boy,"  said  I,  solemnly,  "do  you  see  that 
sign  ?  " 

He  turned  his  head,  and,  reading  the  ominous  warn 
ing,  nodded  sullenly,  but  said  nothing. 

"  Boy,  what  does  it  mean  ?  "  said  I.  "  Boys  must  be 
allowed  to  come  into  this  railway  station.  There  are 
two  now  standing  in  the  doorway  directly  under  the 
sign." 

The  latent  sympathy  in  my  tone  touched  his  heart. 


"BOYS  NOT  ALLOWED."  95 

He  left  his  seat,  and,  coming  to  mine,  edged  in  past 
me  ;  and,  putting  his  head  out  of  the  window,  read  the 
sentence  aloud  in  a  contemptuous  tone.  Then  he 
offered  me  a  peanut,  which  I  took;  and  he  proceeded 
to  tell  me  what  he  thought  of  the  sign. 

"  Boys  not  allowed  !  "  said  he.  "  That's  just  the  way 
'tis  everywhere  ;  but  I  never  saw  the  sign  up  before. 
It  don't  make  any  difference,  though,  whether  they  put 
the  sign  up  or  not.  Why,  in  New  York  (you  live  in 
New  York,  don't  you  ? )  they  won't  even  stop  the  horse- 
cars  for  a  boy  to  get  on.  Nobody  thinks  any  thing'll 
hurt  a  boy  ;  but  they're  glad  enough  to  '  allow '  us  when 
there's  any  errands  to  be  done,  and"  — 

"Do  you  live  in  New  York?"  interrupted  I  ;  for  I 
did  not  wish  to  hear  the  poor  little  fellow's  list  of 
miseries,  which  I  knew  by  heart  beforehand  without 
his  telling  me,  having  been  hopeless  knight-errant  of 
oppressed  boyhood  all  my  life. 

Yes,  he  "  lived  in  New  York,"  and  he  "  went  to  a 
grammar  school,"  and  he  had  "two  sisters."  And  so 
we  talked  on  in  that  sweet,  ready,  trustful  talk  which 
comes  naturally  only  from  children's  lips,  until  the 
"twenty  minutes  for  refreshments  "  were  over,  and  the 
choked  and  crammed  passengers,  who  had  eaten  big 
dinners  in  that  breath  of  time,  came  hurrying  back  to 
their  seats.  Among  them  came  the  father  and  mother 
of  my  little  friend.  In  angry  surprise  at  not  finding 
him  in  the  seat  where  they  left  him,  they  exclaimed,  — 

"Now,  where  is  that  boy?  Just  like  him!  We  might 
nave  lost  every  one  of  these  bags." 


96  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  Here  I  am,  mamma,"  he  called  out,  pleasantly.  "  I 
could  see  the  bags  all  the  time.  Nobody  came  into  the 
car." 

"  I  told  you  not  to  leave  the  seat,  sir.  What  do  you 
mean  by  such  conduct  ?  "  said  the  father. 

"  Oh,  no,  papa,"  said  poor  Boy,  "  you  only  told  me 
to  take  care  of  the  bags."  And  an  anxious  look  of 
terror  came  into  his  face,  which  told  only  too  well  under 
how  severe  a  regime  he  lived.  I  interposed  hastily 
with — 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  the  cause  of  your  little  son's  leav 
ing  his  seat.  He  had  sat  very  still  till  I  spoke  to  him  ; 
and  I  believe  I  ought  to  take  all  the  blame." 

The  parents  were  evidently  uncultured,  shallow 
people.  Their  irritation  with  him  was  merely  a  sur 
face  vexation,  which  had  no  real  foundation  in  a  deep 
principle.  They  became  complaisant  and  smiling  at 
my  first  word,  and  Boy  escaped  with  a  look  of  great 
relief  to  another  seat,  where  they  gave  him  a  simple  lun 
cheon  of  saleratus  gingerbread.  "Boys  not  allowed" 
to  go  in  to  dinner  at  the  Massasoit,  thought  I  to  my 
self;  and  upon  that  text  I  sat  sadly  meditating  all  the 
way  from  Springfield  to  Boston. 

How  true  it  was,  as  the  little  fellow  had  said,  that 
"it  don't  make  any  difference  whether  they  put  the 
sign  up  or  not ! "  No  one  can  watch  carefully  any 
average  household  where  there  are  boys,  and  not  see 
that  there  are  a  thousand  little  ways  in  which  the  boys' 
comfort,  freedom,  preference  will  be  disregarded,  when 
the  girls'  will  be  considered.  This  is  partly  intentional, 


"BOYS  NOT  ALLOWED."  97 

partly  unconscious.  Something  is  to  be  said  undoubt 
edly  on  the  advantage  of  making  the  boy  realize  early 
and  keenly  that  manhood  is  to  bear  and  to  work,  and 
womanhood  is  to  be  helped  and  sheltered.  But  this 
should  be  inculcated,  not  inflicted  ;  asked,  not  seized  ; 
shown  and  explained,  not  commanded.  Nothing  can 
be  surer  than  the  growth  in  a  boy  of  tender,  chivalrous 
regard  for  his  sisters  and  for  all  women,  if  the  seeds 
of  it  be  rightly  sown  and  gently  nurtured.  But  the 
common  method  is  quite  other  than  this.  It  begins 
too  harshly  and  at  once  with  assertion  or  assump 
tion. 

"  Mother  never  thinks  I  am  of  any  consequence," 
said  a  dear  boy  to  me,  the  other  day.  "  She's  all  for 
the  girls." 

This  was  not  true  ;  but  there  was  truth  in  it.  And 
I  am  very  sure  that  the  selfishness,  the  lack  of  real 
courtesy,  which  we  see  so  plainly  and  pitiably  in  the 
behavior  of  the  average  young  man  to-day  is  the  slow, 
certain  result  of  years  of  just  such  feelings  as  this  child 
expressed.  The  boy  has  to  scramble  for  his  rights. 
Naturally  he  is  too  busy  to  think  much  about  the  rights 
of  others.  The  man  keeps  up  the  habit,  and  is  nega 
tively  selfish  without  knowing  it. 

Take,  for  instance,  the  one  point  of  the  minor  cour 
tesies  (if  we  can  dare  to  call  any  courtesies  minor)  of 
daily  intercourse.  How  many  people  are  there  who 
habitually  speak  to  a  boy  of  ten,  twelve,  or  fourteen 
with  the  same  civility  as  to  his  sister,  a  little  younger 
or  older  ? 

7 


9§  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  I  like  Miss ,"  said  this  same  dear  boy  to  me, 

one  day  ;  "  for  she  always  bids  me  good-morning." 

Ah  !  never  is  one  such  word  thrown  away  on  a  lov 
ing,  open-hearted  boy.  Men  know  that  safe  through 
all  the  wear  and  tear  of  life  they  keep  far  greener  the 
memory  of  some  woman  or  some  man  who  was  kind 
to  them  in  their  boyhood  than  of  the  friend  who  helped 
or  cheered  them  yesterday. 

Dear,  blessed,  noisy,  rollicking,  tormenting,  comfort 
ing  Boy !  What  should  we  do  without  him  ?  How 
much  we  like,  without  suspecting  it,  his  breezy  pres 
ence  in  the  house  !  Except  for  him,  how  would  errands 
be  done,  chairs  brought,  nails  driven,  cows  stoned  out 
of  our  way,  letters  carried,  twine  and  knives  kept  ready, 
lost  things  found,  luncheon  carried  to  picnics,  three- 
year-olds  that  cry  led  out  of  meeting,  butterflies  and 
birds'  nests  and  birch-bark  got,  the  horse  taken  round 
to  the  stable,  borrowed  things  sent  home, — and  all 
with  no  charge  for  time  ? 

Dear,  patient,  busy  Boy  !  Shall  we  not  sometimes 
answer  his  questions  ?  Give  him  a  comfortable  seat  ? 
Wait  and  not  reprove  him  till  after  the  company  has 
gone  ?  Let  him  wear  his  best  jacket,  and  buy  him  half 
as  many  neckties  as  his  sister  has  ?  Give  him  some 
honey,  even  if  there  is  not  enough  to  go  round  ?  Lis 
ten  tolerantly  to  his  little  bragging,  and  help  him 
"  do  "  his  sums  ? 

With  a  sudden  shrill  scream  the  engine  slipped  off 
on  a  side-track,  and  the  cars  glided  into  the  great,  grim 
city-station,  looking  all  the  grimmer  for  its  twinkling 


"BOYS  NOT  ALLOWED."  99 

lights.  The  masses  of  people  who  were  waiting  and 
the  masses  of  people  who  had  come  surged  toward  each 
other  like  two  great  waves,  and  mingled  in  a  moment 
I  caught  sight  of  my  poor  little  friend,  Boy,  following 
his  father,  struggling  along  in  the  crowd,  carrying  two 
heavy  carpet-bags,  a  strapped  bundle,  and  two  um 
brellas,  and  being  sharply  told  to  "  Keep  up  close 
there." 

"  Ha  !  "  said  I,  savagely,  to  myself,  "doing  porters' 
work  is  not  one  of  the  things  which  '  boys '  are  '  not 
allowed.' " 


100  BITS  OF  TALK. 


HALF   AN    HOUR    IN    A   RAILWAY 
STATION. 

FT  was  one  of  those  bleak  and  rainy  days  which 
•*•  mark  the  coming  of  spring  on  New  England  sea 
shores.  The  rain  felt  and  looked  as  if  it  might  at  any 
minute  become  hail  or  snow  ;  the  air  pricked  like 
needles  when  it  blew  against  flesh.  Yet  the  huge 
railway  station  was  as  full  of  people  as  ever.  One 
could  see  no  difference  between  this  dreariest  of  days 
and  the  sunniest,  so  far  as  the  crowd  was  concerned, 
except  that  fewer  of  the  people  wore  fine  clothes  ;  per 
haps,  also,  that  their  faces  looked  a  little  more  sombre 
and  weary  than  usual. 

There  is  no  place  in  the  world  where  human  nature 
shows  to  such  sad  disadvantage  as  in  waiting-rooms 
at  railway  stations,  especially  in  the  "  Ladies'  Room." 
In  the  "Gentlemen's  Room"  there  is  less  of  that 
ghastly,  apathetic  silence  which  seems  only  explain 
able  as  an  interval  between  two  terrible  catastrophes. 
Shall  we  go  so  far  as  to  confess  that  even  the  un 
sightly  spittoons,  and  the  uncleanly  and  loquacious 
fellowship  resulting  from  their  common  use,  seem 
here,  for  the  moment,  redeemed  from  a  little  of  their 


IN  A  RAILWAY  STATION.  IOI 


abominableness,  —  simply  ^bcdause^  almost'  an/  'actioii  ' 
is  better  than  utter  inaction,  and  any  thing  which  makes 
joyless,  taciturn  American  speak  to  his  fellow 
whom  he  does  not  know,  is  for  the  time  being  a  bless 
ing.  But  in  the  "Ladies  Room  "  there  is  not  even  a 
community  of  interest  in  a  single  bad  habit,  to  break 
the  monotone  of  weary  stillness.  Who  has  not  felt 
the  very  soul  writhe  within  her  as  she  has  first  crossed 
the  threshold  of  one  of  these  dismal  antechambers  of 
journey  ?  Carpetless,  dingy,  dusty  ;  two  or  three  low 
sarcophagi  of  greenish-gray  iron  in  open  spaces,  sur 
rounded  by  blue-lipped  women,  in  different  angles  and 
attitudes  of  awkwardness,  trying  to  keep  the  soles  of 
their  feet  in  a  perpendicular  position,  to  be  warmed  at 
what  they  have  been  led  to  believe  is  a  steam-heating 
apparatus  ;  a  few  more  women,  equally  listless  and 
weary-looking,  standing  in  equally  difficult  and  awk 
ward  positions  before  a  counter,  holding  pie  in  one 
hand,  and  tea  in  a  cup  and  saucer  in  the  other,  taking 
alternate  mouthfuls  of  each,  and  spilling  both  ;  the 
rest  wedged  bolt  upright  against  the  wall  in  narrow 
partitioned  seats,  which  only  need  a  length  of  perfo 
rated  foot-board  in  front  to  make  them  fit  to  be  patented 
as  the  best  method  of  putting  whole  communities  of 
citizens  into  the  stocks  at  once.  All,  feet  warmers, 
pie-eaters,  and  those  who  sit  in  the  red-velvet  stocks, 
wear  so  exactly  the  same  expression  of  vacuity  and 
fatigue  that  they  might  almost  be  taken  for  one  gigan 
tic  and  unhappy  family  connection,  on  its  way  to  what 
is  called  in  newspapers  "a  sad  event."  The  only 


102  BITS  Ot\  TALK. 

wonder  is  that  this  siiiTened,  desiccated  crowd  retains 
vitality  enough  to  remember  the  ho'urs  at  which  its 
several  trains  depart,  and  to  rise  up  and  shake  itself 
alive  and  go  on  board.  One  is  haunted  sometimes  by 
the  fancy  that  some  day,  when  the  air  in  the  room  13 
unusually  bad  and  the  trains  are  delayed,  a  curious 
phenomenon  will  be  seen.  The  petrifaction  will  be 
carried  a  little  farther  than  usual,  and,  when  the  beli 
rings  and  the  official  calls  out,  "  Train  made  up  for 
Babel,  Hinnom,  and  way  stations  ? "  no  women  will 
come  forth  from  the  "Ladies'  Room,"  no  eye  will  move, 
no  muscle  will  stir.  Husbands  and  brothers  will  wait 
and  search  vainly  for  those  who  should  have  met  them 
at  the  station,  with  bundles  of  the  day's  shopping  to 
be  carried  out ;  homes  will  be  desolate  ;  and  the  his 
tory  of  rare  fossils  and  petrifactions  will  have  a  novel 
addition.  Or,  again,  that,  if  some  sudden  convulsion 
of  Nature,  like  those  which  before  now  have  buried 
wicked  cities  and  the  dwellers  in  them,  were  to-day 
to  swallow  up  the  great  city  of  New  Sodom  in  America, 
and  keep  it  under  ground  for  a  few  thousand  years, 
nothing  in  all  its  circuit  would  so  puzzle  the  learned 
archaeologists  of  A.  D.  5873  as  the  position  of  the 
skeletons  in  these  same  waiting-rooms  of  railway  sta 
tions. 

Thinking  such  thoughts  as  these,  sinking  slowly 
and  surely  to  the  level  of  the  place,  I  waited,  on  this 
bleak,  rainy  day,  in  just  such  a  "  Ladies'  Room  "  as  I 
have  described.  I  sat  in  the  red- velvet  stocks,  with 
my  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor. 


IN  A  RAILWAY  STATION.  103 

"  Please,  ma'am,  won't  you  buy  a  basket  ?  "  said  a 
cheery  little  voice.  So  near  me,  without  my  knowing 
it,  had  the  little  tradesman  come  that  I  was  as  startled 
as  if  the  voice  had  spoken  out  of  the  air  just  above  my 
head. 

He  was  a  sturdy  little  fellow,  ten  years  old,  Irish, 
dirty,  ragged  ;  but  he  had  honest,  kind  gray  eyes,  and 
a  smile  which  ought  to  have  sold  more  baskets  than 
he  could  carry.  A  few  kind  words  unsealed  the  foun 
tain  of  his  childish  confidences.  There  were  four 
children  younger  than  he  ;  the  mother  took  in  washing, 
and  the  father,  who  was  a  cripple  from  rheumatism, 
made  these  baskets,  which  he  carried  about  to  sell. 

"  Where  do  you  sell  the  most  ? " 

"  Round  the  depots.     That's  the  best  place." 

"  But  the  baskets  are  rather  clumsy  to  carry.  Al 
most  everybody  has  his  hands  full,  when  he  sets  out 
on  a  journey." 

"  Yis'm  ;  but  mostly  they  doesn't  take  the  baskets. 
But  they  gives  me  a  little  change,"  said  he,  with  a 
smile,  half  roguish,  half  sad. 

I  watched  him  on  in  his  pathetic  pilgrimage  round 
that  dreary  room,  seeking  help  from  that  dreary  circle 
of  women. 

My  heart  aches  to  write  down  here  the  true  record 
that  out  of  those  scores  of  women  only  three  even 
smiled  or  spoke  to  the  little  fellow.  Only  one  gave 
him  money.  My  own  sympathies  had  been  so  won  by 
his  face  and  manner  that  I  found  myself  growing  hot 
with  resentment  as  I  watched  woman  after  woman 


104  BITS  Of    TALK. 

wave  him  off  with  indifferent  or  impatient  gesture. 
His  face  was  a  face  which  no  mother  ought  to  have 
been  able  to  see  without  a  thrill  of  pity  and  affection.  ' 
God  forgive  me  !  As  if  any  mother  ought  to  be  able 
to  see  any  child,  ragged,  dirty,  poor,  seeking  help 
and  finding  none  !  But  his  face  was  so  honest,  and 
brave,  and  responsive  that  it  added  much  to  the  appeal 
of  his  poverty. 

One  woman,  young  and  pretty,  came  into  the  room, 
bringing  in  her  arms  a  large  toy  horse,  and  a  little 
violin.  "  Oh,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  she  has  a  boy  of 
her  own,  for  whom  she  can  buy  gifts  freely.  She  will 
surely  give  this  poor  child  a  penny."  He  thought  so, 
too  ;  for  he  went  toward  her  with  a  more  confident 
manner  than  he  had  shown  to  some  of  the  others. 
No  !  She  brushed  by  him  impatiently,  without  a 
word,  and  walked  to  the  ticket-office.  He  stood  look 
ing  at  the  violin  and  the  toy  horse  till  she  came  back 
to  her  seat.  Then  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  her  face  again  ; 
but  she  apparently  did  not  see  him,  and  he  went  away. 
Ah,  she  is  only  half  mother  who  does  not  see  her  own 
child  in  every  child  !  —  her  own  child's  grief  in  every 
pain  which  makes  another  child  weep  ! 

Presently  the  little  basket-boy  went  out  into  the  great 
hall.  I  watched  him  threading  his  way  in  and  out 
among  the  groups  of  men.  I  saw  one  man  —  bless 
him  ! — pat  the  little  fellow  on  the  head;  then  I  lost 
sight  of  him. 

After  ten  minutes  he  came  back  into  the  Ladies' 
Room,  with  only  one  basket  in  his  hand,  and  a  very 


IN  A  RAILWAY  STATION.  105 

happy  little  face.  The  "  sterner  sex  "  had  been  kinder 
to  him  than  we.  The  smile  which  he  gave  me  in  an 
swer  to  my  glad  recognition  of  his  good  luck  was  the 
sunniest  sunbeam  I  have  seen  on  a  human  face  for 
many  a  day.  He  sank  down  into  the  red-velvet  stocks, 
and  twirled  his  remaining  basket,  and  swung  his  shabby 
little  feet,  as  idle  and  unconcerned  as  if  he  were  some 
rich  man's  son,  waiting  for  the  train  to  take  him  home. 
So  much  does  a  little  lift  help  the  heart  of  a  child,  even 
of  a  beggar  child.  It  is  a  comfort  to  remember  him, 
with  that  look  on  his  face,  instead  of  the  wistful,  plead 
ing  one  which  I  saw  at  first.  I  left  him  lying  back  on 
the  dusty  velvet,  which  no  doubt  seemed  to  him  un 
questionable  splendor.  In  the  cars  I  sat  just  behind 
the  woman  with  the  toy-horse  and  the  violin.  I  saw 
her  glance  rest  lovingly  on  them  many  times,  as  she 
thought  of  her  boy  at  home ;  and  I  wondered  if  the 
little  basket-seller  had  really  produced  no  impression 
whatever  on  her  heart.  I  shall  remember  him  long  after 
(if  he  lives)  he  is  a  man  ! 


106  BITS  OF  TALK. 


A  GENIUS  FOR  AFFECTION. 

'THHE  other  day,  speaking  superficially  and  unchar- 
•*•  itably,  I  said  of  a  woman,  whom  I  knew  but 
slightly,  "  She  disappoints  me  utterly.  How  could  her 
husband  have  married  her  ?  She  is  commonplace  and 
stupid." 

"Yes,"  said  my  friend,  reflectively ;  "it  is  strange. 
She  is  not  a  brilliant  woman  ;  she  is  not  even  an  in 
tellectual  one  ;  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  genius 
for  affection,  and  she  has  it.  It  has  been  good  for  her 
husband  that  he  married  her." 

The  words  sank  into  my  heart  like  a  great  spiritual 
plummet.  They  dropped  down  to  depths  not  often 
stirred.  And  from  those  depths  came  up  some  shining 
sands  of  truth,  worth  keeping  among  treasures  ;  hav 
ing  a  phosphorescent  light  in  them,  which  can  shine  in 
dark  places,  and,  making  them  light  as  day,  reveal  their 
beauty. 

"  A  genius  for  affection."  Yes  ;  there  is  such  a  thing, 
and  no  other  genius  is  so  great.  The  phrase  means 
something  more  than  a  capacity,  or  even  a  talent  for 
loving.  That  is  common  to  all  human  beings,  more  or 
less.  A  man  or  woman  without  it  would  be  a  monster, 
such  as  has  probably  never  been  on  the  earth.  All 


A   GENIUS  FOR  AFFECTION.  107 

men  and  women,  whatever  be  their  shortcomings  in 
other  directions,  have  this  impulse,  this  faculty,  in  a 
degree.  It  takes  shape  in  family  ties  :  makes  clumsy 
and  unfortunate  work  of  them  in  perhaps  two  cases 
out  of  three, — wives  tormenting  husbands,  husbands 
neglecting  and  humiliating  wives,  parents  maltreating 
and  ruining  children,  children  disobeying  and  grieving 
parents,  and  brothers  and  sisters  quarrelling  to  the 
point  of  proverbial  mention  ;  but  under  all  this,  in 
spite  of  all  this,  the  love  is  there.  A  great  trouble  or 
a  sudden  emergency  will  bring  it  out.  In  any  common 
danger,  hands  clasp  closely  and  quarrels  are  forgotten ; 
over  a  sick-bed  hard  ways  soften  into  yearning  tender 
ness  ;  and  by  a  grave,  alas  !  what  hot  tears  fall !  The 
poor,  imperfect  love  which  had  let  itself  be  wearied 
and  harassed  by  the  frictions  of  life,  or  hindered  and 
warped  by  a  body  full  of  diseased  nerves,  comes  run 
ning,  too  late,  with  its  effort  to  make  up  lost  oppor 
tunities.  It  has  been  all  the  while  alive,  but  in  a  sort 
of  trance ;  little  good  has  come  of  it,  but  it  is  something 
that  it  was  there.  It  is  the  divine  germ  of  a  flower  and 
fruit  too  precious  to  mature  in  the  first  years  after 
grafting  ;  in  other  soils,  by  other  waters,  when  the 
healing  of  the  nations  is  fulfilled,  we  shall  see  its  per 
fection.  Oh  !  what  atonement  will  be  there  !  What 
Allowances  we  shall  make  for  each  other,  then !  with 
tfhat  love  we  shall  love  ! 

But  the  souls  who  have  what  my  friend  meant  by  a 
"genius  for  affection  "  are  in  another  atmosphere  than 
*hat  which  common  men  breathe.  Their  "  upper  air  " 


108  BITS  OF  TALK. 

is  clearer,  more  rarefied  than  any  to  which  mere  intel 
lectual  genius  can  soar.  Because,  to  this  last,  always 
remain  higher  heights  which  it  cannot  grasp,  see,  nor 
comprehend. 

Michel  Angelo  may  build  his  dome  of  marble,  and 
human  intellect  may  see  as  clearly  as  if  God  had  said 
it  that  no  other  dome  can  ever  be  built  so  grand,  so 
beautiful.  But  above  St.  Peter's  hangs  the  blue  tent- 
dome  of  the  sky,  vaster,  rounder,  elastic,  unfathomable, 
making  St.  Peter's  look  small  as  a  drinking-cup,  shut 
ting  it  soon  out  of  sight  to  north,  east,  south,  and  west, 
by  the  mysterious  horizon-fold  which  no  man  can  lift. 
And  beyond  this  horizon-fold  of  our  sky  shut  down 
again  other  domes,  which  the  wisest  astronomer  may 
not  measure,  in  whose  distances  our  little  ball  and  we, 
with  all  our  spinning,  can  hardly  show  like  a  star.  If 
St.  Peter's  were  swallowed  up  to-morrow,  it  would  make 
no  real  odds  to  anybody  but  the  Pope.  The  probabil 
ities  are  that  Michel  Angelo  himself  has  forgotten  all 
about  it. 

Titian  and  Raphael,  and  all  the  great  brotherhood 
of  painters,  may  kneel  reverently  as  priests  before  Na 
ture's  face,  and  paint  pictures  at  sight  of  which  all 
men's  eyes  shall  fill  with  grateful  tears  ;  and  yet  all 
men  shall  go  away,  and  find  that  the  green  shade  of  a 
tree,  the  light  on  a  young  girl's  face,  the  sleep  of  a  child, 
the  flowering  of  a  flower,  are  to  their  pictures  as  living 
life  to  beautiful  death. 

Coming  to  Art's  two  highest  spheres,  —  music  of 
sound  and  music  of  speech, — we  find  that  Beethoven 


A    GENIUS  FOR  AFFECTION.  109 

and  Mozart,  and  Milton  and  Shakespeare,  have  written. 
But  the  symphony  is  sacred  only  because,  and  only  so 
far  as,  it  renders  the  joy  or  the  sorrow  which  we  have 
felt.  Surely,  the  interpretation  is  less  than  the  thing 
interpreted.  Face  to  face  with  a  joy,  a  sorrow,  would 
a  symphony  avail  us  ?  And,  as  for  words,  who  shall 
express  their  feebleness  in  midst  of  strength  ?  The 
fettered  helplessness  in  spite  of  which  they  soar  to  such 
heights  ?  The  most  perfect  sentence  ever  written  bears 
to  the  thing  it  meant  to  say  the  relation  which  the 
chemist's  formula  does  to  the  thing  he  handles,  names, 
analyzes,  can  destroy,  perhaps,  but  cannot  make.  Every 
element  in  the  crystal,  the  liquid,  can  be  weighed,  as 
signed,  and  rightly  called ;  nothing  in  all  science  is 
more  wonderful  than  an  exact  chemical  formula ;  but, 
after  all  is  done,  will  remain  for  ever  unknown  the  one 
subtle  secret,  the  vital  centre  of  the  whole. 

But  the  souls  who  have  a  "genius  for  affection" 
have  no  outer  dome,  no  higher  and  more  vital  beauty  ; 
no  subtle  secret  of  creative  motive  force  to  elude  their 
grasp,  mock  their  endeavor,  overshadow  their  lives. 
The  subtlest  essence  of  the  thing  they  worship  and 
desire,  they  have  in  their  own  nature,  —  they  are.  No 
schools,  no  standards,  no  laws  can  help  or  hinder 
them. 

To  them  the  world  is  as  if  it  were  not.  Work  and 
pain  and  loss  are  as  if  they  were  not.  These  are  they 
to  whom  it  is  easy  to  die  any  death,  if  good  can  come 
that  way  to  one  they  love.  These  are  they  who  do  die 
daily  unnoted  on  our  right  hand  and  on  our  left, — 


HO  BITS   OF  TALK. 

fathers  and  mothers  for  children,  husbands  and  wives 
for  each  other.  These  are  they,  also,  who  live,  — which 
is  often  far  harder  than  it  is  to  die,  —  long  lives,  into 
whose  being  never  enters  one  thought  of  self  from  the 
rising  to  the  going  down  of  the  sun.  Year  builds  on 
year  with  unvarying  steadfastness  the  divine  temple 
of  their  beauty  and  their  sacrifice.  They  create,  like 
God.  The  universe  which  science  sees,  studies,  and 
explains,  is  small,  is  petty,  beside  the  one  which  grows 
under  their  spiritual  touch  ;  for  love  begets  love.  The 
waves  of  eternity  itself  ripple  out  in  immortal  circles 
under  the  ceaseless  dropping  of  their  crystal  deeds. 

Angels  desire  to  look,  but  cannot,  into  the  mystery 
of  holiness  and  beauty  which  such  human  lives  reveal. 
Only  God  can  see  them  clearly.  God  is  their  nearest 
of  kin  ;  for  He  is  love. 


RAINY  DAYS.  Ill 


RAINY  DAYS. 

TT  TITH  what  subtle  and  assured  tyranny  they  take 
*  *  possession  of  the  world!  Stoutest  hearts  are 
made  subject,  plans  of  conquerors  set  aside, — the 
heavens  and  the  earth  and  man,  —  all  alike  at  the  mercy 
of  the  rain.  Come  when  they  may,  wait  long  as  they 
will,  give  what  warnings  they  can,  rainy  days  are  always 
interruptions.  No  human  being  has  planned  for  them 
then  and  there.  "  If  it  had  been  but  yesterday,"  "  If 
it  were  only  to-morrow,"  is  the  cry  from  all  lips.  Ah  ! 
a  lucky  tyranny  for  us  is  theirs.  Were  the  clouds  sub 
ject  to  mortal  call  or  prohibition,  the  seasons  would 
fail  and  death  get  upper  hand  of  all  things  before  men 
agreed  on  an  hour  of  common  convenience. 

What  tests  they  are  of  people's  souls  !  Show  me  a  doz 
en  men  and  women  in  the  early  morning  of  a  rainy  day, 
and  I  will  tell  by  their  words  and  their  faces  who  among 
them  is  rich  and  who  is  poor, — who  has  much  goods  laid 
up  for  just  such  times  of  want,  and  who  has  been  spend 
thrift  and  foolish.  That  curious,  shrewd,  underlying 
instinct,  common  to  all  ages,  which  takes  shape  in 
proverbs  recognized  this  long  ago.  Who  knows  when 
it  was  first  said  of  a  man  laying  up  money,  "  He  lays  by 


112  BITS  OF  TALK. 

for  a  rainy  day  "  ?  How  close  the  parallel  is  between  the 
man  who,  having  spent  on  each  day's  living  the  whole 
of  each  day's  income,  finds  himself  helpless  in  an  emer 
gency  of  sickness  whose  expenses  he  has  no  money 
to  meet,  and  the  man  who,  having  no  intellectual  re 
sources,  no  self-reliant  habit  of  occupation,  finds  him 
self  shut  up  in  the  house  idle  and  wretched  for  a  rainy 
day.  I  confess  that  on  rainy  mornings  in  country 
houses,  among  well-dressed  and  so-called  intelligent 
and  Christian  people,  I  have  been  seized  with  stronger 
disgusts  and  despairs  about  the  capacity  and  worth  of 
the  average  human  creature,  than  I  have  ever  felt  in  the 
worst  haunts  of  ignorant  wickedness. 

"What  is  there  to  do  to-day?"  is  the  question  they 
ask.  I  know  they  are  about  to  ask  it  before  they  speak. 
I  have  seen  it  in  their  listless  and  disconcerted  eyes  at 
breakfast.  It  is  worse  to  me  than  the  tolling  of  a  bell; 
for  saddest  dead  of  all  are  they  who  have  only  a 
"name  to  live." 

The  truth  is,  there  is  more  to  do  on  a  rainy  day  than 
on  any  other.  In  addition  to  all  the  sweet,  needful, 
possible  business  of  living  and  working,  and  learning 
and  helping,  which  is  for  all  days,  there  is  the  beauty 
of  the  rainy  day  to  see,  the  music  of  the  rainy  day  to 
hear.  It  drums  on  the  window-panes,  chuckles  and 
gurgles  at  corners  of  houses,  tinkles  in  spouts,  makes 
mysterious  crescendoes  and  arpeggio  chords  through 
the  air;  and  all  the  while  drops  from  the  eaves  and 
upper  window-ledges  are  beating  time  as  rhythmical 
and  measured  as  that  of  a  metronome, — time  to  which 


RAINY  DAYS.  113 

our  own  souls  furnish  tune,  sweet  or  sorrowful,  in 
spiriting  or  saddening,  as  we  will.  It  is  a  curious 
experiment  to  try  repeating  or  chanting  lines  in  time 
and  cadence  following  the  patter  of  raindrops  on  win 
dows.  It  will  sometimes  be  startling  in  its  effect :  no 
metre,  no  accent  fails  of  its  response  in  the  low,  liquid 
stroke  of  the  tender  drops,  —  there  seems  an  uncanny 
rapport  between  them  at  once. 

And  the  beauty  of  the  rain,  not  even  love  can  find 
words  to  tell  it.  If  it  left  but  one  trace,  the  exquisite 
shifting  sheen  of  pearls  on  the  outer  side  of  the  win 
dow  glass,  that  alone  one  might  watch  for  a  day.  In 
all  times  it  has  been  thought  worthy  of  kings,  of  them 
who  are  royally  rich,  to  have  garments  sown  thick  in 
dainty  lines  and  shapes  with  fine  seed  pearls.  Who 
ever  saw  any  such  embroidery  which  could  compare 
with  the  beauty  of  one  pane  of  glass  wrought  on  a 
single  side  with  the  shining  white  transparent  globu- 
lets  of  rain  ?  They  are  millions  ;  they  crowd ;  they 
blend  ;  they  become  a  silver  stream  ;  they  glide  slowly 
down,  leaving  tiniest  silver  threads  behind  ;  they  make 
of  themselves  a  silver  bank  of  miniature  sea  at  the 
bottom  of  the  pane;  and,  while  they  do  this,  other 
millions  are  set  pearl-wise  at  the  top,  to  crowd,  blend, 
glide  down  in  their  turn,  and  overflow  the  miniature 
sea.  This  is  one  pane,  a  few  inches  square  ;  and  rooms 
have  many  windows  of  many  panes.  And  looking  past 
this  spectacle,  out  of  our  windows,  how  is  it  that  we  do 
not  each  rainy  day  weep  with  pleasure  at  sight  of  the 
glistening  show  ?  Every  green  thing,  from  tiniest  grass- 
8 


114  BITS  OF  TALK. 

blade  lying  lowest,  to  highest  waving  tips  of  elms,  also 
set  thick  with  the  water-pearls  ;  all  tossing  and  catch 
ing,  and  tossing  and  catching,  in  fairy  game  with  the 
wind,  and  with  the  rain  itself,  always  losing,  always 
gaining,  changing  shape  and  place  and  number  every 
moment,  till  the  twinkling  and  shifting  dazzle  all  eyes. 

Then  at  the  end  comes  the  sun,  like  a  magician  for 
whom  all  had  been  made  ready ;  at  sunset,  perhaps,  or 
at  sunrise,  if  the  storm  has  lasted  all  night.  In  one 
instant  the  silver  balls  begin  to  disappear.  By  count 
less  thousands  at  a  time  he  tosses  them  back  whence 
they  came  ;  but  as  they  go,  he  changes  them,  under  our 
eyes,  into  prismatic  globes,  holding  very  light  of  very 
light  in  their  tiny  circles,  shredding  and  sorting  it  into 
blazing  lines  of  rainbow  color. 

All  the  little  children  shout  with  delight,  seeing  these 
things  ;  and  call  dull,  grown-up  people  to  behold.  They 
reply,  "  Yes,  the  storm  is  over  ;  "  and  this  is  all  it  means 
to  most  of  them.  This  kingdom  of  heaven  they  can 
not  enter,  not  being  "as  a  little  child." 

It  would  be  worth  while  to  know,  if  we  only  could, 
just  what  our  betters  —  the  birds  and  insects  and 
beasts  —  do  on  rainy  days.  But  we  cannot  find  out 
much.  It  would  be  a  great  thing  to  look  inside  of  an 
ant-hill  in  a  long  rain.  All  we  know  is  that  the  doors 
are  shut  tight,  and  a  few  sentinels,  who  look  as  if 
India-rubber  coats  would  be  welcome,  stand  outside. 
The  stillness  and  look  of  intermission  in  the  woods  on 
a  really  rainy  day  is  something  worth  getting  wet  to 
observe.  It  is  like  Sunday  in  London,  or  Fourth  of 


RAINY  DAYS.  1 15 

July  in  a  country  town  which  has  gone  bodily  to  a 
picnic  in  the  next  village.  The  strays  who  are  out 
seem  like  accidentally  arrived  people,  who  have  lost 
their  way.  One  cannot  fancy  a  caterpillar's  being 
otherwise  than  very  uncomfortable  in  wet  hair  ;  and 
what  can  there  be  for  butterflies  and  dragon-flies  to  do, 
in  the  close  corners  into  which  they  creep,  with  wings 
shut  up  as  tight  as  an  umbrella  ?  The  beasts  fare 
better,  being  clothed  in  hides.  Those  whom  we  often- 
est  see  out  in  rains  (cows  and  oxen  and  horses)  keep 
straight  on  with  their  perpetual  munching,  as  content 
wet  as  dry,  though  occasionally  we  see  them  ac 
cept  the  partial  shelter  of  a  tree  from  a  particularly 
hard  shower. 

Hens  are  the  forlornest  of  all  created  animals  when 
it  rains.  Who  can  help  laughing  at  sight  of  a  flock  of 
them  huddled  up  under  lee  of  a  barn,  limp,  draggled, 
spiritless,  shifting  from  one  leg  to  the  other,  with  their 
silly  heads  hanging  inert  to  right  or  left,  looking  as 
if  they  would  die  for  want  of  a  yawn  ?  One  sees 
just  such  groups  of  other  two-legged  creatures  in 
parlors,  under  similar  circumstances.  The  truth  is,  a 
hen's  life  at  best  seems  poorer  than  that  of  any  other 
known  animal.  Except  when  she  is  setting,  I  cannot 
help  having  a  contempt  for  her.  This  also  has  been 
recognized  by  that  common  instinct  of  people  which 
goes  to  the  making  of  proverbs  ;  for  "  Hen's  time  ain't 
worth  much"  is  a  common  saying  among  farmers' 
wives.  How  she  dawdles  about  all  day,  with  her  eyes 
not  an  inch  from  the  ground,  forever  scratching  and 


li6  BITS  OF  TALK. 

feeding  in  dirtiest  places,  —  a  sort  of  animated  muck 
rake,  with  a  mouth  and  an  alimentary  canal !  No  won 
der  "such  an  inane  creature  is  wretched  when  it  rains, 
and  her  soulless  business  is  interrupted.  She  is,  I 
think,  likest  of  all  to  the  human  beings,  men  or  women, 
who  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  themselves  on  lainy 
days 


FRIENDS  OF  THE  PRISONERS.  117 


FRIENDS    OF    THE    PRISONERS. 

TN  many  of  the  Paris  prisons  is  to  be  seen  a  long, 
•*-  dreary  room,  through  the  middle  of  which  are  built 
two  high  walls  of  iron  grating,  enclosing  a  space  of 
some  three  feet  in  width. 

A  stranger  visiting  the  prison  for  the  first  time 
would  find  it  hard  to  divine  for  what  purpose  these 
walls  of  grating  had  been  built.  But  on  the  appointed 
days  when  the  friends  of  the  prisoners  are  allowed  to 
enter  the  prison,  their  use  is  sadly  evident.  It  would 
not  be  safe  to  permit  wives  and  husbands,  and  moth 
ers  and  sons,  to  clasp  hands  in  unrestrained  freedom. 
A  tiny  file,  a  skein  of  silk,  can  open  prison-doors  and 
set  captives  free  ;  love's  ingenuity  will  circumvent 
tyranny  and  fetters,  in  spite  of  all  possible  precautions. 
Therefore  the  vigilant  authority  says,  "  You  may  see, 
but  not  touch  ;  there  shall  be  no  possible  opportunity 
for  an  instrument  of  escape  to  be  given  ;  at  more  than 
arm's  length  the  wife,  the  mother  must  be  held."  The 
prisoners  are  led  in  and  seated  on  a  bench  upon  one 
side  of  these  gratings  ;  the  friends  are  led  in  and 
seated  on  a  similar  bench  on  the  other  side  ;  jailers 
are  in  attendance  in  both  rooms  ;  no  words  can  be 


IlS  BITS  OF  TALK. 

spoken  which  the  jailers  do  not  hear.  Yearningly 
eyes  meet  eyes  ;  faces  are  pressed  against  the  hard 
wires  ;  loving  words  are  exchanged  ;  the  poor  prisoned 
souls  ask  eagerly  for  news  from  the  outer  world,  — 
the  world  from  which  they  are  as  much  hidden  as  if 
they  were  dead.  Fathers  hear  how  the  little  ones  have 
grown  ;  sometimes,  alas  !  how  the  little  ones  have 
died.  Small  gifts  of  fruit  or  clothing  are  brought ;  but 
must  be  given  first  into  the  hands  of  the  jailers.  Even 
flowers  cannot  be  given  from  loving  hand  to  hand ; 
for  in  the  tiniest  flower  might  be  hidden  the  secret 
poison  which  would  give  to  the  weary  prisoner  surest 
escape  of  all.  All  day  comes  and  goes  the  sad  train  of 
friends  ;  lingering  and  turning  back  after  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said  ;  weeping  when  they  meant  and  tried 
to  smile  ;  more  hungry  for  closer  sight  and  voice,  and 
for  touch,  with  every  moment  that  they  gaze  through 
the  bars  ;  and  going  away,  at  last, -with  a  new  sense  of 
loss  and  separation,  which  time,  with  its  merciful  heal 
ing,  will  hardly  soften  before  the  visiting-day  will  come 
again,  and  the  same  heart-rending  experience  of 
mingled  torture  and  joy  will  again  be  borne.  But  to 
the  prisoners  these  glimpses  of  friends'  faces  are-like 
manna  from  heaven.  Their  whole  life,  physical  and 
mental,  receives  a  new  impetus  from  them.  Their 
blood  flows  more  quickly,  their  eyes  light  up,  they 
live  from  one  day  to  the  next  on  a  memory  and  a  hope. 
No  punishment  can  be  invented  so  terrible  as  the 
deprivation  of  the  sight  of  their  friends  on  the  visiting- 
day.  Men  who  are  obstinate  and  immovable  before 


FRIENDS   OF  THE  PRISONERS.  119 

any  sort  or  amount  of  physical  torture  are  subdued  by 
mere  threat  of  this. 

A  friend  who  told  me  of  a  visit  he  paid  to  the  Prison 
Mazas,  on  one  of  the  days,  said,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  "  It  was  almost  more  than  I  could  bear  to  see 
these  poor  souls  reaching  out  toward  each  other  from 
either  side  of  the  iron  railings.  Here  a  poor,  old 
woman,  tottering  and  weak,  bringing  a  little  fruit  in  a 
basket  for  her  son  ;  here  a  wife,  holding  up  a  baby  to 
look  through  the  gratings  at  its  father,  and  the  father 
trying  in  an  agony  of  earnestness  to  be  sure  that  the 
baby  knew  him  ;  here  a  little  girl,  looking  half  re 
proachfully  at  her  brother,  terror  struggling  with  ten 
derness  in  her  young  face  ;  on  the  side  of  the  friends, 
love  and  yearning  and  pity  beyond  all  words  to  de 
scribe  ;  on  the  side  of  the  prisoners,  love  and  yearning 
just  as  great,  but  with  a  misery  of  shame  added,  which 
gave  to  many  faces  a  look  of  attempt  at  dogged  indif 
ference  on  the  surface,  constantly  betrayed  and  con 
tradicted,  however,  by  the  flashing  of  the  eyes  and  the 
red  of  the  cheeks." 

The  story  so  impressed  me  that  I  could  not  for  days 
lose  .sight  of  the  picture  it  raised  ;  the  double  walls  of 
iron  grating ;  the  cruel,  inexorable,  empty  space  be 
tween  them,  —  empty,  yet  crowded  with  words  and 
looks  ;  the  lines  of  anxious,  yearning  faces  on  either 
side.  But  presently  I  said  to  myself,  It  is,  after  all, 
not  so  unlike  the  life  we  all  live.  Who  of  us  is  not  in 
prison  ?  Who  of  us  is  not  living  out  his  time  of  pun 
ishment  ?  Law  holds  us  all  in  its  merciless  fulfilment 


120.  BITS   OF  TALK. 

of  penalty  for  sin  ;  disease,  danger,  work  separate  us, 
wall  us,  bury  us.  That  we  are  not  numbered  with  the 
number  of  a  cell,  clothed  in  the  uniform  of  a  prison, 
locked  up  at  night,  and  counted  in  the  morning,  is  only 
an  apparent  difference,  and  not  so  real  a  one.  Our 
jailers  do  not  know  us  ;  but  we  know  them.  There 
is  no  fixed  day  gleaming  for  us  in  the  ijiture  when 
our  term  of  sentence  will  expire  and  we  shall  regain 
freedom.  It  may  be  to-morrow  ;  but  it  may  be  three 
score  years  away.  Meantime,  we  bear  ourselves  as  if 
we  were  not  in  prison.  We  profess  that  we  choose, 
we  keep  our  fetters  out  of  sight,  we  smile,  we  sing,  we 
contrive  to  be  glad  of  being  alive,  and  we  take  great 
interest  in  the  changing  of  our  jails.  But  no  man 
knows  where  his  neighbor's  prison  lies.  How  bravely 
and  cheerily  most  eyes  look  up  !  This  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  mercies  of  life,  that  "  the  heart  knoweth  its 
own  bitterness,"  and,  knowing  it,  can  hide  it.  Hence, 
we  can  all  be  friends  for  other  prisoners,  standing 
separated  from  them  by  the  impassable  iron  gratings 
and  the  fixed  gulf  of  space,  which  are  not  inappropri 
ate  emblems  of  the  unseen  barriers  between  all  human 
souls.  We  can  show  kindly  faces,  speak  kindly  words, 
bear  to  them  fruits  and  food,  and  moral  help,  greater 
than  fruit  or  food.  We  need  not  aim  at  philanthro 
pies  ;  we  need  not  have  a  visiting-day,  nor  seek  a 
prison-house  built  of  stone.  On  every  road  each  man 
we  meet  is  a  prisoner  ;  he  is  dying  at  heart,  however 
sound  he  looks  ;  he  is  only  waiting,  however  well  he 
works.  If  we  stop  to  ask  whether  he  be  our  brother, 


FRIENDS  OF  THE   PRISONERS.         121 

he  is  gone.  Our  one  smile  would  have  lit  up  his 
prison-day.  Alas  for  us  if  we  smiled  not  as  we 
passed  by  !  Alas  for  us  if,  face  to  face,  at  last,  with 
our  Elder  Brother,  we  find  ourselves  saying,  "  Lord, 
when  saw  we  thee  sick  and  in  prison ! " 


122  BITS  OF  TALK. 


A  COMPANION    FOR   THE   >VINTER. 

T  HAVE  engaged  a  companion  for  the  winter.  It 
•*•  would  be  simply  a  superfluous  egotism  to  say  this  to 
the  public,  except  that  I  have  a  philanthropic  motive 
for  doing  so.  There  are  many  lonely  people  who  are 
in  need  of  a  companion  possessing  just  such  qualities 
as  his  ;  and  he  has  brothers  singularly  like  himself, 
whose  services  can  be  secured.  I  despair  of  doing 
justice  to  him  by  any  description.  In  fact,  thus  far, 
I  discover  new  perfections  in  him  daily,  and  believe 
that  I  am  yet  only  on  the  threshold  of  our  friendship.  . 

In  conversation  he  is  more  suggestive  than  any  per 
son  I  have  ever  known.  After  two  or  three  hours  alone 
with  him,  I  am  sometimes  almost  startled  to  look  back 
and  see  through  what  a  marvellous  train  of  fancy  and 
reflection  he  has  led  me.  Yet  he  is  never  wordy,  and 
often  conveys  his  subtlest  meaning  by  a  look. 

He  is  an  artist,  too,  of  the  rarest  sort.  You  watch 
the  process  under  which  his  pictures  grow  with  in 
credulous  wonder.  The  Eastern  magic  which  drops 
the  seed  in  the  mould,  and  bids  it  shoot  up  before  your 
eyes,  blossom,  and  bear  its  fruit  in  an  hour,  is  tardy 
and  clumsy  by  side  of  the  creative  genius  of  my  com 
panion.  His  touch  is  swift  as  air;  his  coloring  is  vivid 


A  COMPANION  FOR  THE  WINTER.      123 

as  light ;  he  has  learned,  I  know  not  how,  the  secrets  of 
hidden  places  :n  all  lands  ;  and  he  paints,  now  a  tufted 
clump  of  soft  ,ocoa  palms  ;  now  the  spires  and  walls 
of  an  iceberg,  glittering  in  yellow  sunlight ;  now  a  des 
olate,  sandy  waste,  where  black  rocks  and  a  few  crum 
bling  ruins  are  lit  up  by  a  lurid  glow ;  then  a  cathedral 
front,  with  carvings  like  lace ;  then  the  skeleton  of  a 
wrecked  ship,  with  bare  ribs  and  broken  masts,  — and 
all  so  exact,  so  minute,  so  life-like,  that  you  believe  no 
man  could  paint  thus  any  thing  which  he  had  not  seen. 
He  has  a  special  love  for  mosaics,  and  a  marvellous 
faculty  for  making  drawings  of  curious  old  patterns. 
Nothing  is  too  complicated  for  his  memory,  and  he 
revels  in  the  most  fantastic  and  intricate  shapes.  I 
have  known  him  in  a  single  evening  throw  off  a  score 
of  designs,  all  beautiful,  and  many  of  them  rare  :  fiery 
scorpions  on  a  black  ground ;  pale  lavender  filagrees 
over  scarlet ;  white  and  black  squares  blocked  out  as 
for  tiles  of  a  pavement,  and  crimson  and  yellow  threads 
interlaced  over  them ;  odd  Chinese  patterns  in  brilliant 
colors,  all  angles  and  surprises,  with  no  likeness  to 
any  thing  in  nature ;  and  exquisite  little  bits  of  land 
scape  in  soft  grays  and  whites.  Last  night  was  one 
of  his  nights  of  reminiscences  of  the  mosaic-workers. 
A  furious  snow-storm  was  raging,  and,  as  the  flaky 
crystals  piled  up  in  drifts  on  the  window-ledges,  he 
seemed  to  catch  the  inspiration  of  their  law  of  struc 
ture,  and  drew  sheet  after  sheet  of  crystalline  shapes  ; 
some  so  delicate  and  filmy  that  it  seemed  as  if  a  jar 
might  obliterate  them ;  some  massive  and  strong,  like 


124  BITS  OF  TALK. 

those  in  which  the  earth  keeps  her  mineral  treasures ; 
then,  at  last,  on  a  round  charcoal  disk,  he  traced  out  a 
perfect  rose,  in  a  fragrant  white  powder,  which  piled 
up  under  his  fingers,  petal  after  petal,  circle  after  circle, 
till  the  feathery  stamens  were  buried  out  of  sight.  Then, 
as  we  held  our  breath  for  fear  of  disturbing  it,  with  a 
good-natured  little  chuckle,  he  shook  it  off  into  the  fire, 
and  by  a  few  quick  strokes  of  red  turned  the  black  char 
coal  disk  into  a  shield  gay  enough  for  a  tournament. 

He  has  talent  for  modelling,  but  this  he  exercises 
more  rarely.  Usually,  his  figures  are  grotesque  rather 
than  beautiful,  and  he  never  allows  them  to  remain 
longer  than  for  a  few  moments,  often  changing  them  so 
rapidly  under  your  eye  that  it  seems  like  jugglery.  He 
is  fondest  of  doing  this  at  twilight,  and  loves  the  dark 
est  corner  of  the  room.  From  the  half-light  he  will 
suddenly  thrust  out  before  you  a  grinning  gargoyle 
head,  to  which  he  will  give  in  an  instant  more  a 
pair  of  spider  legs,  and  then,  with  one  roll,  stretch  it 
out  into  a  crocodile,  whose  jaws  seem  so  near  snap 
ping  that  you  involuntarily  draw  your  chair  further 
back.  Next,  in  a  freak  of  ventriloquism,  he  startles 
you  still  more  by  bringing  from  the  crocodile's  mouth 
a  sigh,  so  long  drawn,  so  human,  that  you  really  shud 
der,  and  are  ready  to  implore  him  to  play  no  more 
tricks.  He  knows  when  he  has  reached  this  1'mit, 
and  soothes  you  at  once  by  a  tender,  far-off  whisper, 
like  the  wind  through  pines,  sometimes  almost  like  an 
^olian  harp  ;  then  he  rouses  you  from  your  dreams  by 
what  you  are  sure  is  a  tap  at  the  door.  You' turn,  speak, 


A  COMPANION  FOR   THE  WINTER.       125 

listen ;  no  one  enters  ;  the  tap  again.  Ah  !  it  is  only  a 
little  more  of  the  ventriloquism  of  this  wonderful  creat 
ure.  You  are  alone  with  him,  and  there  was  no  tap  at 
the  door. 

But  when  there  is,  and  the  friencl  comes  in,  then  my 
companion's  genius  shines  out.  Almost  always  in  life 
the  third  person  is  a  discord,  or  at  least  a  burden  ;  but 
he  is  so  genial,  so  diffusive,  so  sympathetic,  that,  like 
some  tints  by  which  painters  know  how  to  bring  out 
all  the  other  colors  in  a  picture,  he  forces  every  one  to 
do  his  best.  I  am  indebted  to  him  already  for  a  better 
knowledge  of  some  men  and  women  with  whom  I  had 
talked  for  years  before  to  little  purpose.  It  is  most 
wonderful  that  he  produces  this  effect,  because  he  him 
self  is  so  silent ;  but  there  is  some  secret  charm  in  his 
very  smile  which  puts  people  en  rapport  with  each 
other,  and  with  him  at  once. 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  go  on  with  the  list  of  the  things 
my  companion  can  do.  I  have  not  yet  told  the  half, 
nor  the  most  wonderful ;  and  I  believe  I  have  already 
overtaxed  credulity.  I  will  mention  only  one  more,  — 
but  that  is  to  me  far  more  inexplicable  than  all  the  rest. 
I  am  sure  that  it  belongs,  with  mesmerism  and  clair 
voyance,  to  the  domain  of  the  higher  psychological 
mysteries.  He  has  in  rare  hours  the  power  of  pro 
ducing  the  portraits  of  persons  whom  you  have  loved, 
but  whom  he  has  never  seen.  For  this  it  is  necessary 
that  you  should  concentrate  your  whole  attention  on 
him,  as  is  always  needful  to  secure  the  best  results  of 
mesmeric  power.  It  must  also  be  late  and  still  In 


126  BITS  OF  TALK. 

the  day,  or  in  a  storm,  I  have  never  known  him  to  suc 
ceed  in  this.  For  these  portraits  he  uses  only  shadowy 
gray  tints.  He  begins  with  a  hesitating  outline.  If 
you  are  not  tenderly  and  closely  in  attention,  he  throws 
it  aside;  he  can  do  nothing.  But  if  you  are  with  him, 
heart  and  soul,  and  do  not  take  your  eyes  from  his,  he 
will  presently  fill  out  the  dear  faces,  full,  life-like,  and 
wearing  a  smile,  which  makes  you  sure  that  they  too 
must  have  been  summoned  from  the  other  side,  as  you 
from  this,  to  meet  on  the  shadowy  boundary  between 
flesh  and  spirit.  He  must  see  them  as  clearly  as  he 
sees  you  ;  and  it  would  be  little  more  for  his  magic  to 
do  if  he  were  at  the  same  moment  showing  to  their 
longing  eyes  your  face  and  answering  smile. 

But  I  delay  too  long  the  telling  of  his  name.  A 
strange  hesitancy  seizes  me.  I  shall  never  be  believed 
by  any  one  who  has  not  sat  as  I  have  by  his  side.  But, 
if  I  can  only  give  to  one  soul  the  good-cheer  and 
strength  of  such  a  presence,  I  shall  be  rewarded. 

His  name  is  Maple  Wood-fire,  and  his  terms  are 
from  eight  to  twelve  dollars  a  month,  according  to  the 
amount  of  time  he  gives.  This  price  is  ridiculously 
low,  but  it  is  all  that  any  member  of  the  family  asks  ; 
in  fact,  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  they  can  be  hired 
for  much  less.  They  have  connections  by  the  'name 
of  Hickory,  whose  terms  are  higher  ;  but  I  cannot  find 
out  that  they  are  any  more  satisfactory.  There  are  also 
some  distant  relations,  named  Chestnut  and  Pine,  who 
can  be  employed  in  the  same  way,  at  a  much  lower  rate ; 
but  they  are  all  snappish  and  uncertain  in  temper. 


A    COMPANION  FOR   THE    WINTER.       127 

To  the  whole  world  I  commend  the  good  brotherhood 
of  Maple,  and  pass  on  the  emphatic"  indorsement  of  a 
blessed  old  black  woman  who  came  to  my  room  the 
other  day,  and,  standing  before  the  rollicking  blaze  on 
my  hearth,  said,  "  Bless  yer,  honey,  yer's  got  a  wood- 
fire.  I'se  allers  said  that,  if  yer's  got  a  wood-fire,  yer's 
got  meat,  an'  drink,  an'  clo'es." 


128  BITS  OF  TALK 


CHOICE   OF  COLORS. 

r  I  ^HE  other  day,  as  I  was  walking  on  one  of  the 
-*-      oldest  and  most  picturesque  streets  of  the  old 
and  picturesque  town  of  Newport,  R.  I.,  I  saw  a  little 
girl  standing  before  the  window  of  a  milliner's  shop. 

It  was  a  very  rainy  day.  The  pavement  of  the  side 
walks  on  this  street  is  so  sunken  and  irregular  that  in 
wet  weather,  unless  one  walks  with  very  great  care,  he 
steps  continually  into  small  wells  of  water.  Up  to  her 
ankles  in  one  of  these  wells  stood  the  little  girl,  appar 
ently  as  unconscious  as  if  she  were  high  and  dry  before 
a  fire.  It  was  a  very  cold  day  too.  I  was  hurrying 
along,  wrapped  in  furs,  and  not  quite  warm  enough  even 
so.  The  child  was  but  thinly  clothed.  She  wore  an  old 
plaid  shawl  and  a  ragged  knit  hood  of  scarlet  worsted. 
One  little  red  ear  stood  out  unprotected  by  the  hood, 
and  drops  of  water  trickled  down  over  it  from  her  hair. 
She  seemed  to  be  pointing  with  her  finger  at  articles  in 
the  window,  and  talking  to  some  one  inside.  I  watched 
her  for  several  moments,  and  then  crossed  the  street  to 
see  what  it  all  meant.  I  stole  noiselessly  up  behind 
her,  and  she  did  not  hear  me.  The  window  was  full 
of  artificial  flowers,  of  the  cheapest  sort,  but  of  very  gay 


CHOICE   OF  COLORS.  129 

colors.  Here  and  there  a  knot  of  ribbon  or  a  bit  of 
lace  had  been  tastefully  added,  and  the  whole  effect  was 
really  remarkably  gay  and  pretty.  Tap,  tap,  tap,  went 
the  small  hand  against  the  window-pane ;  and  with 
every  tap  the  unconscious  little  creature  murmured,  in 
a  half- whisper  ing,  half-singing  voice,  "  I  choose  that 
color."  "  I  choose  that  color."  "  I  choose  that  color." 

I  stood  motionless.  I  could  not  see  her  face ;  but 
there  was  in  her  whole  attitude  and  tone  the  heartiest 
content  and  delight.  I  moved  a  little  to  the  right,  hop 
ing  to  see  her  face,  without  her  seeing  me;  but  the 
slight  movement  caught  her  ear,  and  in  a  second  she 
had  sprung  aside  and  turned  toward  me.  The  spell 
was  broken.  She  was  no  longer  the  queen  of  an  air- 
castle,  decking  herself  in  all  the  rainbow  hues  which 
pleased  her  eye.  She  was  a  poor  beggar  child,  out  in 
the  rain,  and  a  little  frightened  at  the  approach  of  a 
stranger.  She  did  not  move  away,  however;  but  stood 
eying  me  irresolutely,  with  that  pathetic  mixture  of 
interrogation  and  defiance  in  her  face  which  is  so  often 
seen  in  the  prematurely  developed  faces  of  poverty- 
stricken  children. 

"  Aren't  the  colors  pretty  ?  "  I  said.  She  brightened 
instantly.. 

"  Yes'm.     I'd  like  a  goon  av  thit  blue." 

"  But  you  will  take  cold  standing  in  the  wet,"  said  I. 
u  Won't  you  come  under  my  umbrella  ?" 

She  looked  down  at  her  wet  dress  suddenly,  as  if  it 
had  not  occurred  to  her  before  that  it  was  raining. 
Then  she  drew  first  one  little  foot  and  then  the  other 


130  BITS  OF  TALK. 

out  of  the  muddy  puddle  in  which  she  had  been  standing, 
and,  moving  a  little  closer  to  the  window,  said,  "I'm 
not  jist  goin'  home,  mem.  I'd  like  to  stop  here  a  bit." 

So  I  left  her.'  But,  after  I  had  gone  a  few  blocks, 
the  impulse  seized  me  to  return  by  a  cross  street,  and 
see  if  she  were  still  there.  Tears  sprang  to  my  eyes  as 
I  first  caught  sight  of  the  upright  little  figure,  standing 
in  the  same  spot,  still  pointing  with  the  rhythmic  finger 
to  the  blues  and  reds  and  yellows,  and  half  chanting 
under  her  breath,  as  before,  "I  choose  that  color."  "I 
choose  that  color."  "  I  choose  that  color."  . 

I  went  quietly  on  my  way,  without  disturbing  her 
again.  But  I  said  in  my  heart,  "  Little  Messenger, 
Interpreter,  Teacher!  I  will  remember  you  all  my 
life." 

Why  should  days  ever  be  dark,  life  ever  be  color 
less  ?  There  is  always  sun ;  there  are  always  blue 
and  scarlet  and  yellow  and  purple.  We  cannot  reach 
them,  perhaps,  but  we  can  see  them,  if  it  is  only 
"through  a  glass,"  and  "darkly,"  —  still  we  can  see 
them.  We  can  "choose"  our  colors.  It  rains,  per 
haps  ;  and  we  are  standing  in  the  cold.  Never  mind. 
If  we  look  earnestly  enough  at  the  brightness  which  is 
on  the  other  side  of  the  glass,  we  shall  forget  the  wet 
and  not  feel  the  cold.  And  now  and  then  a  passer-by, 
who  has  rolled  himself  up  in  furs  to  keep  out  the  cold, 
but  shivers  nevertheless, — who  has  money  in  his 
purse  to  buy  many  colors,  if  he  likes,  but,  neverthe 
less,  goes  grumbling  because  some  colors  are  too  dear 
for  him,  —  such  a  passer-by,  chancing  to  hear  our 


•     CHOICE   OF   COLORS.  131 

voice,  and  see  the  atmosphere  of  our  content,  may 
learn  a  wondrous  secret,  —  that  pennilessness  is  not 
poverty,  and  ownership  is  not  possession ;  that  to  be 
without  is  not  always  to  lack,  and  to  reach  is  not  to 
attain ;  that  sunlight  is  for  all  eyes  that  look  up,  and 
color  for  those  who  "choose." 


I33  BITS  OF  TALK. 


THE  APOSTLE   OF  BEAUTY. 

TTE  is  not  of  the  twelve,  any  more  than  the  golden 
•*•  rule  is  of  the  ten.  "  A  greater  commandment  I 
give  unto  you,"  was  said  of  that.  Also  it  was  called 
the  "  new  commandment."  Yet  it  was  really  older  than 
the  rest,  and  greater  only  because  it  included  them  all. 
There  were  those  who  kept  it  ages  before  Moses  went 
up  Sinai :  Joseph,  for  instance,  his  ancestor ;  and  the 
king's  daughter,  by  whose  goodness  he  lived.  So 
stands  the  Apostle  of  Beauty,  greater  than  the  twelve, 
newer  and  older;  setting  Gospel  over  against  law, 
having  known  law  before  its  beginning ;  living  trium 
phantly  free  and  unconscious  of  penalty. 

He  has  had  martyrdom,  and  will  have.  His  church 
is  never  established  ;  the  world  does  not  follow  him ; 
only  of  Wisdom  is  he  known,  and  of  her  children, 
who  are  children  of  light.  He  never  speaks  by  their 
mouths  who  say  "  Shalt  not."  He  knows  that  "  shalt 
not "  is  illegitimate,  puny,  trying  always  to  usurp  the 
throne  of  the  true  king,  "  Thou  shalt." 

"This  is  delight,"  "this  is  good  to  see,"  he  says  of 
a  purity,  of  a  fair  thing.  It  needs  not  to  speak  of  the 
impurity,  of  the  ugliness.  Left'unmentioned,  unfor- 
bidden,  who  knows  how  soon  they  might  die  out  of 


THE  APOSTLE  OF  BEAUTY.     133 

men's  lives,  perhaps  even  from  the  earth's  surface? 
Men  hedging  gardens  have  for  centuries  set  plants 
under  that  "letter  of  law"  which  "killeth,"  until  the 
very  word  hedge  has  become  a  pain  and  an  offence ; 
and  all  the  while  there  have  been  standing  in  every 
wild  country  graceful  walls  of  unhindered  brier  and 
berry,  to  which  the  apostles  of  beauty  have  been 
silently  pointing.  By  degrees  gardeners  have  learned 
something.  The  best  of  them  now  call  themselves 
"  landscape  gardeners  ; "  and  that  is  a  concession,  if 
it  means,  as  I  suppose  it  does,  that  they  will  try  to 
copy  Nature's  landscapes  in  their  enclosures.  I  have 
seen  also  of  late  that  on  rich  men's  estates  tangled 
growths  of  native  bushes  are  being  more  let  alone,  and 
hedges  seem  to  have  had  some  of  the  weights  and  har 
ness  taken  off  of  them. 

This  is  but  one  little  matter  among  millions  with 
which  the  Apostle  of  Beauty  has  to  do ;  but  it  serves 
for  instance  of  the  first  requisite  he  demands,  which  is 
freedom.  "  Let  use  take  care  of  itself."  "  It  will,"  he 
says.  "  There  is  no  beauty  without  freedom." 

Nothing  is  too  high  for  him,  nothing  too  low  or 
small.  To  speak  more  truly,  in  his-  eyes  there  is  rio 
small,  no  low.  From  a  philanthropy  clown  to  a  gown, 
one  catholic  necessity,  one  catholic  principle  ;  gowns 
can  be  benefactions  or  injuries  ;  philanthropies  can  be 
well  or  ill.  clad. 

He  has  a  ministry  of  co-workers,  —  men,  women,  and 
guileless  little  children.  Many  of  them  serve  him  with 
out  knowing  him  by  name.  Some  who  serve  him  best, 


134  BITS  OF  TALK. 

who  spread  his  creeds  most  widely,  who  teach  them 
most  eloquently,  die  without  dreaming  that  they  have 
been  missionaries  to  Gentiles.  Others  there  are  who 
call  him  "  Lord?/Lord,"  build  temples  to  him  and  teach 
in  them,  who  never  know  him.  These  are  they  who 
give  their  goods  to  the  poor,  their  bodies  to  be  burned  ; 
but  are  each  day  ungracious,  unloving,  hard,  cruel  to 
men  and  women  about  them.  These  are  they  also  who 
make  bad  statues,  bad  pictures,  invent  frightful  fashions 
of  things  to  be  worn,  and  make  the  houses  and  the 
rooms  in  which  they  live  hideous  with  unsightly  adorn 
ments.  The  centuries  fight  such,  —  now  with  a  Titian, 
a  Michel  Angelo ;  now  with  a  great  philanthropist, 
who  is  also  peaceable  and  easy  to  be  entreated  ;  now 
with  a  Florence  Nightingale,  knowing  no  sect;  now 
with  a  little  child  by  a  roadside,  holding  up  a  mari 
gold  in  the  sun  ;  now  with  a  sweet-faced  old  woman, 
dying  gracefully  in  some  almshouse.  Who  has  not 
heard  voice  from  such  apostles  ? 

To-day  my  nearest,  most  eloquent  apostle  of  beauty 
is  a  poor  shoemaker,  who  lives  in  the  house  where  I 
lodge.  How  poor  he  must  be  I  dare  not  even  try  to 
understand.  He  has  six  children  :  the  oldest  not  more 
than  thirteen,  the  third  a  deaf-mute,  the  baby  puny  and 
ill,  —  sure,  I  think  (and  hope),  to  die  soon. 

They  live  in  two  rooms,  on  the  ground-floor.  His 
shop  is  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  front  room ;  the 
rest  is  bedroom  and  sitting-room  ;  behind  are  the  bed 
room  and  kitchen.  I  have  never  seen  so  much  as  I 
might  of  their  way  of  living;  for  I  stand  before  his 


THE  APOSTLE  OF  BEAUTY.     135 

window  with  more  reverent  fear  of  intruding  by  .a  look 
than  I  should  have  at  the  door  of  a  king's  chamber.  A 
narrow  rough  ledge  added  to  the  window-sill  is  his 
bench.  Behind  this  he  sits  from  six  in  the  morning  till 
seven  at  night,  bent  over,  sewing  slowly  and  painfully  on 
the  coarsest  shoes.  His  face  looks  old  enough  for  sixty 
years  ;  but  he  cannot  be  so  old.  Yet  he  wears  glasses 
and  walks  feebly ;  he  has  probably  never  had  in  any 
one  day  of  his  life  enough  to  eat.  But  I  do  not  know 
any  man,  and  I  know  only  one  woman,  who  has  such 
a  look  of  radiant  good-cheer  and  content  as  has  this 
poor  shoemaker,  Anton  Grasl. 

In  his  window  are  coarse  wooden  boxes,  in  which 
are  growing  the  common  mallows.  They  are  just  now 
in  full  bloom,  —  row  upon  row  of  gay-striped  purple 
and  white  bells.  The  window  looks  to  the  east,  and  is 
never  shut.  When  I  go  out  to  my  breakfast  the  sun 
is  streaming  in  on  the  flowers  and  Anton's  face.  He 
looks  up,  smiles,  bows  low,  and  says,  "  Good-day,  good 
my  lady,"  sometimes  holding  the  mallow-stalks  back 
with  one  hand,  to  see  me  more  plainly.  I  feel  as  if  the 
day  and  I  had  had  benediction.  It  is  always  a  better 
day  because  Anton  has  said  it  is  good ;  and  I  am  a 
better  woman  for  sight  of  his  godly  contentment.  Al 
most  every  day  he  has  beside  the  mallows  in  the 
boxes  a  white  mug  with  flowers  in  it, — nasturtiums, 
perhaps,  or  a  few  pinks.  This  he  sets  carefully  in 
shade  of  the  thickest  mallows  ;  and  this  I  have  often 
seen  him  hold  down  tenderly,  for  the  little  ones  to  see 
and  to  smell. 


136  BITS   OF  TALK. 

When  I  come  home  in  the  evenings,  between  eight 
and  nine  o'clock,  Anton  is  always  sifting  in  front  of 
the  door,  resting  his  head  against  the  wall.  This  is 
his  recreation,  his  one  blessed  hour  of  out-door  air  and 
rest  He  stands  with  his  cap  in  his  hand  while  I  pass, 
and  his  face  shines  as  if  all  the  concentrated  enjoy 
ment  of  my  walk  in  the  woods  had  descended  upon  him 
in  my  first  look.  If  I  give  him  a  bunch  of  ferns  to  add 
to  his  nasturtiums  and  pinks,  he  is  so  grateful  and  de 
lighted  that  I  have  to  go  into  the  house  quickly  for  fear 
I  shall  cry.  Whenever  I  am  coming  back  from  a  drive, 
I  begin  to  think,  long  before  I  reach  the  house,  how 
glad  Anton  will  look  when  he  sees  the  carriage  stop. 
I  am  as  sure  as  if  I  had  omniscient  sight  into  the  depths 
of  his  good  heart  that  he  has  distinct  and  unenvious  joy 
in  every  pleasure  that  he  sees  other  people  taking. 

Never  have  I  heard  one  angry  or  hasty  word,  one 
petulant  or  weary  cry  from  the  rooms  in  which  this 
father  and  mother  and  six  children  are  struggling  to 
live.  All  day  long  the  barefooted  and  ragged  little  ones 
play  under  my  south  windows,  and  do  not  quarrel.  I 
amuse  myself  by  dropping  grapes  or  plums  on  their 
heads,  and  then  watching  them  at  their  feast ;  never 
have  I  seen  them  dispute  or  struggle  in  the  division. 
Once  I  purposely  threw  a  large  bunch  of  grapes  to  the 
poor  little  mute,  and  only  a  few  plums  to  the  others. 
I  am  sorry  to  say  that  voiceless  Carl  ate  all  his  grapes 
himself;  but  not  a  selfish  or  discontented  look  could  I 
see  on  the  faces  of  the  others,  —  they  all  smiled  and 
beamed  up  at  me  like  suns. 


THE  APOSTLE   OF  BEAUTY.  137 

It  is  Anton  who  creates  and  sustains  this  rare  at 
mosphere.  The  wife  is  only  a  common  and  stupid 
woman  ;  he  is  educating  her,  as  he  is  the  children.  She 
is  very  thin  and  worn  and  hungry-looking,  but  always 
smiles.  Being  Anton's  wife,  she  could  not  do  other 
wise. 

Sometimes  I  see  people  passing  the  house,  who  give 
a  careless  glance  of  contemptuous  pity  at  Anton's  win 
dow  of  mallows  and  nasturtiums.  Then  I  remember 
that  an  apostle  wrote :  — 

"  There  are,  it  may  be,  so  many  kinds  of  voices  in 
the  world,  and  none  of  them  is  without  signification. 

"  Therefore,  if  I  know  not  the  meaning  of  the  voice, 
I  shall  be  unto  him  that  speaketh  a  barbarian,  and  he 
that  speaketh  shall  be  a  barbarian  unto  me." 

And  I  long  to   call  after  them,  as  they  go  groping 
their  way  down  the  beautiful  street,  — 

"  Oh,  ye  barbarians,  blind  and  deaf!  How  dare  you 
think  you  can  pity  Anton  ?  His  soul  would  melt  in 
compassion  for  you,  if  he  were  able  to  comprehend  that 
lives  could  be  so  poor  as  yours.  He  is  the  rich  man, 
and  you  are  poor.  Eating  only  the  husks  on  which 
you  feed,  he  would  starve  to  death." 


BITS  OF  TALK. 


ENGLISH    LODGING-HOUSES. 

OOMEBODY  who  has  written  stories  (is  it 
^  Dickens  ?)  has  given  us  very  wrong  ideas  of  the 
English  lodging-house.  What  good  American  does 
not  go  into  London  with  the  distinct  impression  that, 
whatever  else  he  does  or  does  not  do,  he  will  upon  no 
account  live  in  lodgings  ?  That  he  will  even  be  content 
with  the  comfortless  coffee-room  of  a  second-rate  hotel, 
and  fraternize  with  commercial  travellers  from  all  quar 
ters  of  the  globe,  rather  than  come  into  relations  with 
that  mixture  of  vulgarity  and  dishonesty,  the  lodging- 
house  keeper  ? 

It  was  with  more  than  such  misgiving  that  I  first 

crossed  the  threshold  of  Mrs. ?s  house  in  Bedford 

Place,  Bloomsbury.  At  this  distance  I  smile  to  re 
member  how  welcome  would  have  been  any  alternative 
rather  than  the  remaining  under  her  roof  for  a  month  ; 
how  persistently  for  several  days  I  doubted  and  re 
sisted  the  evidence  of  all  my  senses,  and  set  myself  at 
work  to  find  the  discomforts  and  shortcomings  which 
I  believed  must  belong  to  that  mode  of  life.  To  con 
fess  the  stupidity  and  obstinacy  of  my  ignorance  is 


ENGLISH  LODGING-HOUSES.  139 

small  reparation,  and  would  be  little  worth  while, 
except  for  the  hope  that  my  account  of  the  comfort 
and  economy  in  living  on  the  English  lodging-house 
system  may  be  a  seed  dropped  in  due  season,  which 
shall  spring  up  sooner  or  later  in  the  introduction  of  a 
similar  system  in  America.  The  gain  which  it  would 
be  to  great  numbers  of  our  men  and  women  who  must 
live  on  small  incomes  cannot  be  estimated.  It  seems 
hardly  too  much  to  say  that  in  the  course  of  one  gen 
eration  it  might  work  in  the  average  public  health  a 
change  which  would  be  shown  in  statistics,  and  rid  us 
of  the  stigma  of  a  "  national  disease  "  of  dyspepsia. 
For  the  men  and  women  whose  sufferings  and  ill- 
health  have  made  of  our  name  a  by- word  among  the 
nations  are  not,  as  many  suppose,  the  rich  men  and 
women,  tempted  by  their  riches  to  over-indulgence  of 
their  stomachs,  and  paying  in  their  dyspepsia  simply 
the  fair  price  of  their  folly ;  they  are  the  moderately 
poor  men  and  women,  who  are  paying  cruel  penalty  for 
not  having  been  richer,  —  not  having  been  rich  enough 
to  avoid  the  poisons  which  are  cooked  and  served  in 
American  restaurants  and  in  the  poorer  class  of  Ameri 
can  homes. 

Mrs. 's  lodging-house  was  not,  so  far  as  I  know, 

any  better  than  the  average  lodging-houses  of  its  grade. 
It  was  well  situated,  well  furnished,  well  kept,  and  its 
scale  of  prices  was  moderate.  For  instance,  the  rent 
of  a  pleasant  parlor  and  bedroom  on  the  second  floor 
was  thirty-four  shillings  a  week,  including  fire  and  gas, 
—  $8.50,  gold.  Then  there  was  a  charge  of  two  shil- 


140  BITS  OF  TALK. 

lings  a  week  for  the  use  of  the  kitchen-fire,  and  three 
shillings  a  week  for  service ;  and  these  were  the  only 
charges  in  addition  to  the  rent.  Thus  for  $9.75  a 
week  one  had  all  the  comforts  that  can  be  had  in 
housekeeping,  so  far  as  room  and  service  are  con 
cerned.  There  were  four  good  servants,  —  cook,  scul 
lery  maid,  and  two  housemaids.  Oh,  the  pleasant 
voices  and  gentle  fashions  of  behavior  of  those  house 
maids  !  They  were  slow,  it  must  be  owned  ;  but  their 
results  were  admirable.  In  spite  of  London  smoke 

and  grime,  Mrs. 's  floors  and  windows  were  clean  ; 

the  grates  shone  every  morning  like  mirrors,  and  the 
glass  and  silver  were  bright.  Each  morning  the 
smiling  cook  came  up  to  take  our  orders  for  the  meals 
of  the  day  ;  each  day  the  grocer  and  the  baker  and  the 
butcher  stopped  at  the  door  and  left  the  sugar  for  the 
"  first  floor  front,"  the  beef  for  the  "drawing-room,"  and 
so  on.  The  smallest  article  which  could  be  required 
in  housekeeping  was  not  overlooked.  The  groceries 
of  the  different  floors  never  got  mixed,  though  how 
this  separateness  of  stores  was  accomplished  will  for 
ever  remain  a  mystery  to  me  ;  but  that  it  was  success 
fully  accomplished  the  smallness  of  our  bill  was  the 
best  of  proof,  —  unless,  indeed,  as  we  were  sometimes 

almost  afraid,  we  did  now  and  then  eat  up  Dr.  A 's 

cheese,  or  drink  the  milk  belonging  to  the  B's  below  us. 
We  were  a  party  of  four ;  our  fare  was  of  the  plain, 
substantial  sort,  but  of  sufficient  variety  and  abun 
dance  ;  and  yet  our  living  never  cost  us,  including 
rent,  service,  fires,  and  food,  over  $60  a  week.  If  we 


ENGLISH  LODGING-HOUSES.  141 

had  chosen  to  practise  closer  economies,  we  might 
have  lived  on  less.  Compare  for  one  instant  the  com 
fort  of  such  an  airangement  as  this,  which  really  gave 
us  every  possible  advantage  to  be  secured  by  house 
keeping,  and  with  almost  none  of  the  trouble,  with  any 
boarding  or  lodging  possible  in  New  York.  We  had 
two  parlors  and  two  bedrooms  ;  our  meals  served 
promptly  and  neatly,  in  our  own  parlor.  The  same 
amount  of  room,  and  service,  and  such  a  table,  for  four 
people,  cannot  be  had  in  New  York  for  less  than  $150 
or  $200  a  week ;  in  fact,  they  cannot  be  had  in  New 
York  for  any  sum  of  money.  The  quiet  respectfulness 
of  behavior  and  faithful  interest  in  work  of  English 
servants  on  English  soil  are  not  to  be  found  elsewhere. 
We  afterward  lived  for  some  weeks  in  another  lodging- 
house  in  Great  Malvern,  Worcestershire,  at  about  the 
same  price  per  week.  This  house  was  even  better 
than  the  London  one  in  some  respects.  The  system 
was  precisely  the  same  ;  but  the  cooking  was  al 
most  faultless,  and  the  table  appointments  were  more 
than  satisfactory,  —  they  were  tasteful.  The  china 
was  a  pleasure,  and  there  were  silver  and  linen  and 
glass  which  one  would  be  glad  to  have  in  one's  own 
home. 

It  may  be  asked,  and  not  unnaturally,  how  does 
this  lodging-house  system  work  for  those  who  keep 
the  houses  ?  Can  it  be  possible  that  all  this  com 
fort  and  economy  for  lodgers  are  compatible  with 
profits  for  landlords  ?  I  can  judge  only  from  the  re 
sults  in  these  two  cases  which  came  under  my  own 


142  BITS  OF  TALK. 

observation.  In  each  of  these  cases  the  family  who 
kept  the  house  lived  comfortably  and  pleasantly  in 
their  own  apartment,  which  was,  in  the  London  house, 
almost  as  good  a  suite  of  rooms  as  any  which  they 
rented.  They  certainly  had  far  more  apparent  quiet, 
comfort,  and  privacy  than  is  commpnly  seen  in  the 
arrangements  of  the  keepers  of  average  boarding- 
houses.  In  the  Malvern  house,  one  whole  floor,  which 
was  less  pleasant  than  the  others,  but  still  comfortable 
and  well  furnished,  was  occupied  by  the  family.  There 
were  three  little  boys,  under  ten  years  of  age,  who  had 
their  nursery  governess,  said  lessons  to  her  regularly, 
and  were  led  out  decorously  to  walk  by  her  at  appointed 
seasons,  like  all  the  rest  of  good  little  English  boys  in 
well-regulated  families  ;  and  yet  the  mother  of  these 
children  came  to  the  door  of  our  parlor  each  morning, 
with  the  respectful  air  of  an  old  family  housekeeper,  to 
ask  what  we  would  have  for  dinner,  and  was  careful 
and  exact  in  buying  "  three  penn'orth  "  of  herbs  at  a 
time  for  us,  to  season  our  soup.  I  ought  to  mention 
that  in  both  these  places  we  made  the  greater  part  of 
our  purchases  ourselves,  having  weekly  bills  sent  in 
from  the  shops,  and  in  our  names,  exactly  as  if  we  were 
living  in  our  own  house.  All  honest  lodging-house 
keepers,  we  were  told,  preferred  this  method,  as  leaving 
no  opening  for  any  unjust  suspicions  of  their  fairness 
in  providing.  But,  if  one  chooses  to  be  as  absolutely 
free  from  trouble  as  in  boarding,  the  marketing  can  all 
be  done  by  the  family,  and  the  bills  still  made  out  in 
the  lodgers'  names.  I  have  been  thus  minute  in  my 


ENGLISH  LOD.GING-HOUSES.  143 

details  because  I  think  there  may  be  many  to  whom 
this  system  of  living  is  as  unknown  as  it  was  to  me  ; 
and  I  cannot  but  hope  that  it  may  yet  be  introduced 
in  America. 


144  BITS  OF  TALK. 


WET  THE   CLAY. 

f  \NCE  I  stood  in  Miss  Hosmer's  studio,  looking 
^-^  at  a  statue  which  she  was  modelling  of  the  ex- 
queen  of  Naples.  Face  to  face  with  the  clay  model,  I 
always  feel  the  artist's  creative  power  far  more  than 
when  I  am  looking  at  the  immovable  marble. 

A  touch  here  —  there  —  and  all  is  changed.  Per 
haps,  under  my  eyes,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  one 
trait  springs  into  life  and  another  disappears. 

The  queen,  who  is  a  very  beautiful  woman,  was  rep 
resented  in  Miss  Hosmer's  statue  as  standing,  wearing 
the  picturesque  cloak  that  she  wore  during  those  hard 
days  of  garrison  life  at  Gaeta,  when  she  showed  her 
self  so  brave  and  strong  that  the  world  said  if  she,  in 
stead  of  that  very  stupid  young  man  her  husband,  had 
been  king,  the  throne  need  not  have  been  lost.  The 
very  cloak,  made  of  light  cloth  showily  faced  with  scar 
let,  was  draped  over  a  lay  figure  in  one  corner  of  the 
room.  In  the  statue  the  folds  of  drapery  over  the  right 
arm  were  entirely  disarranged,  simply  rough  clay.  The 
day  before  they  had  been  apparently  finished  ;  but  that 
morning  Miss  Hosmer  had,  as  she  laughingly  told  us, 
"pulled  it  all  to  pieces  again." 

As  she  said  this,  she  took  up  a  large  syringe  and 


WET  THE   CLAY.  145 

showered  the  statue  from  head  to  foot  with  water,  till 
it  dripped  and  shone  as  if  it  had  been  just  plunged  into 
a  bath.  Now  it  was  in  condition  to  be  moulded.  Many 
times  a  day  this  process  must  be  repeated,  or  the  clay 
becomes  so  dry  and  hard  that  it  cannot  be  worked. 

I  had  known  this  before  ;  but  never  did  I  so  realize 
the  significant  symbolism  of  the  act  as  when  I  looked 
at  this  lifeless  yet  lifelike  thing,  to  be  made  into  the 
beauty  of  a  woman,  called  by  her  name,  and  cherished 
after  her  death,  —  and  saw  that  only  through  this  chrys 
alis  of  the  clay,  so  cared  for,  moistened,  and  moulded, 
could  the  marble  obtain  its  soul. 

And,  as  all  things  I  see  in  life  seem  to  me  to  have  a 
voice  either  for  or  of  children,  so  did  this  instantly 
suggest  to  me  that  most  of  the  failures  of  mothers  come 
from  their  not  keeping  the  clay  wet. 

The  slightest  touch  tells  on  the  clay  when  it  is  soft 
and  moist,  and  can  produce  just  the  effect  which  is  de 
sired  ;  but  when  the  clay  is  too  dry  k  will  not  yield, 
and  often  it  breaks  and  crumbles  beneath  the  unskilful 
hand.  How  perfect  the  analogy  between  these  two 
results,  and  the  two  atmospheres  which  one  often  sees 
in  the  space  of  one  half-hour  in  the  management  of  the  . 
same  child !  One  person  can  win  from  it  instantly  a 
gentle  obedience :  that  person's  smile  is  a  reward,  that 
person's  displeasure  is  a  grief  it  cannot  bear,  that  per 
son's  opinions  have  utmost  weight  with  it,  that  person's 
presence  is  a  controlling  and  subduing  influence.  An 
other,  perhaps,  alas  !  the  mother,  produces  such  an  op 
posite  effect  that  it  is  hard  to  believe  the  child  can  be  the 
10 


I46  BITS  OF  TALK. 

same  child.  Her  simplest  command  is  met  by  antag 
onism  or  sullen  compliance ;  her  pleasure  and  dis 
pleasure  are  plainly  of  no  account  to  the  child,  and  its 
great  desire  is  to  get  out  of  her  presence. 

What  shape  will  she  make  of  that  child's  soul  ? 
She  does  not  wet  the  clay.  She  does  not  stop  to  con 
sider  before  each  command  whether  it  be  wholly  just, 
whether  it  be  the  best  time  to  make  it,  and  whether  she 
can  explain  its  necessity.  Oh  !  the  sweet  reason 
ableness  of  children  when  disagreeable  necessities  are 
explained  to  them,  instead  of  being  enforced  as  arbi 
trary  tyrannies  !  She  does  not  make  them  so  feel  that 
she  shares  all  their  sorrows  and  pleasures  that  they 
cannot  help  being  in  turn  glad  when  she  is  glad,  and 
sorry  when  she  is  sorry.  She  does  not  so  take  them"  " 
into  constant  companionship  in  her  interests,  each  day, 

—  the  books,  the  papers  she  reads,  the  things  she  sees, 

—  that  they  learn  to  hold  her  as  the  representative  of 
much  more  than  nursery  discipline,  clothes,  and  bread 
and  butter.     She  does  not  kiss  them  often  enough,  put 
her  arms  around  them,  warm,  soften,  bathe  them  in  the 
ineffable  sunshine  of  loving  ways.     "I  can't  imagine 
why  children  are  so  much  better  with  you  than  with 
me,"  exclaims  such  a  mother.    No,  she  cannot  imagine  ; 
and  that  is  the  trouble.     If  she  could,  all  would  be 
righted.     It  is  quite  probable  that. she  is  afar  more 
anxious,  self-sacrificing,  hard-working  mother  than  the 
neighbor,  whose  children  are  rosy  and  frolicking  and 
affectionate  and  obedient ;  while  hers  are  pale  and  fret 
ful  and  selfish  and  sullen. 


WET  THE   CLAY  H7 

She  is  all  the  time  working,  working,  with  endless 
activity,  on  hard,  dry  clay ;  and  the  neighbor,  who, 
perhaps  half-unconsciously,  keeps  the  clay  wet,  is 
with  one-half  the  labor  modelling  sweet  creatures  of 
Nature's  own  loveliest  shapes. 

Then  she  says,  this  poor,  tired  mother,  discouraged 
because  her  children  tell  lies,  and  irritated  because  they 
seem  to  her  thankless,  "After  all.  children  are  pretty 
much  alike,  I  suppose.  I  believe  most  children  tell 
lies  when  they  are  little;  and  they  never  realize  until 
they  are  grown  up  what  parents  do  for  them." 

Here  again  I  find  a  similitude  among  the  artists  who 
paint  or  model.  Studios  are  full  of  such  caricatures, 
and  the  hard-working,  honest  souls  who  have  made 
them  believe  that  they  are  true  reproductions  of  nature 
and  life. 

"  See  my  cherub.  Are  not  all  cherubs  such  as  he?" 
and  "Behold  these  trees  and  this  water ;  and  how  the 
sun  glowed  on  the  clay  when  I  walked  there  ! "  and  all 
the  while  the  .cherub  is  like  a  paper  doll,  and  the  trees 
and  the  water  never  had  any  likeness  to  any  thing  that 
is  in  this  beautiful  earth.  But,  after  all,  this  similitude 
is  short  and  paltry,  for  it  is  of  comparatively  small 
moment  that  so  many  men  and  women  spend  their 
lives  in  making  bad  cherubs  in  marble,  and  hideous 
landscapes  in  oil.  It  is  industry,  and  it  keeps  them  in 
bread;  in  butter,  too,  if  their  cherubs  and  trees  are 
very  bad.  But,  when  it  is  a  human  being  that  is  to  be 
moulded,  how  do  we  dare,  even  with  all  the  help  which 
we  can  ask  and  find  in  earth  and  in  heaven,  to  shape 
it  by  our  touch  1 


148  BITS  OF  TALK. 

Clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter  is  not  more  plastic 
than  is  the  little  child's  soul  in  the  hands  of  those  who 
tend  it.  Alas  !  how  many  shapeless,  how  many  ill- 
formed,  how  many  broken  do  we  see  !  Who  does  not 
believe  that  the  image  of  God  could  have  been  beauti 
ful  on  all  ?  Sooner  or  later  it  will  be,  thank  Christ ! 
But  what  a  pity,  what  a  loss,  not  to  have  had  the  sweet 
blessedness  of  being  even  here  fellow-workers  with 
him  in  this  glorious  modelling  for  eternity  ! 


THE  KING'S  FRIEND.  149 


THE  KING'S  FRIEND. 

T  \  7E  are  a  gay  party,  summering  among  the  hills. 
**  New-comers  into  the  little  boarding-house 
where  we,  by  reason  of  prior  possession,  hold  a  kind 
of  sway  are  apt  to  fare  hardly  at  our  hands  unless  they 
come  up  to  our  standard.  We  are  not  exacting  in  the 
matter  of  clothes  ;  we  are  liberal  on  creeds  ;  but  we 
have  our  shibboleths.  And,  though  we  do  not  drown 
unlucky  Ephraimites,  whose  tongues  make  bad  work 
with  S's,  I  fear  we  are  not  quite  kind  to  them ;  they 
never  stay  long,  and  so  we  go  on  having  it  much  our 
own  way. 

Week  before  last  a  man  appeared  at  dinner,  of  whom 
our  good  little  landlady  said,  deprecatingly,  that  he 
would  stay  only  a  few  days.  She  knew  by  instinct 
that  his  presence  would  not  be  agreeable  to  us.  He 
was  not  in  the  least  an  intrusive  person,  —  on  the  con 
trary,  there  was  a  sort  of  mute  appeal  to  our  humanity 
in  the  very  extent  of  his  quiet  inoifensiveness  ;  but  his 
whole  atmosphere  was  utterly  uninteresting.  He  was 
untrained  in  manner,  awkwardly  ill  at  ease  ii\.  the  table 
routine  ;  and,  altogether,  it  was  so  uncomfortable  to 
make  any  attempt  to  include  him  in  our  circle  that  in 


150  BITS  OF  TALK. 

a  few  days  he  was  ignored  by  every  one,  to  a  degree 
which  was  neither  courteous  nor  Christian. 

In  all  families  there  is  a  leader.    Ours  is  a  charming 

o 

and  brilliant  married  woman,  whose  ready  wit  and 
never-failing  spirits  make  her  the  best  of  centres  for  a 
country  party  of  pleasure-seekers.  Her  keen  sense  of 
humor  had  not  been  able  entirely  to  spare  this  unfor 
tunate  man,  whose  attitudes  and  movements  were  cer 
tainly  at  times  almost  irresistible. 

But  one  morning  such  a  change  was  apparent  in  her 
manner  toward  him  that  we  all  looked  up  in  surprise. 
No  more  gracious  and  gentle  greeting  could  she  have 
given  him  if  he  had  been  a  prince  of  royal  line.  Our 
astonishment  almost  passed  bounds  when  we  heard  her 
continue  with  a  kindly  inquiry  after  his  health,  and, 
undeterred  by  his  evident  readiness  to  launch  into 
detailed  symptoms,  listen  to  him  with  the  most  re 
spectful  attention.  Under  the  influence  of  this  new 
and  sweet  recognition  his  plain  and  common  face 
kindled  into  something  almost  manly  and  individual. 
He  had  never  before  been  so  spoken  to  by  a  well-bred 
and  beautiful  woman. 

We  were  sobered,  in  spite  of  ourselves,  by  an  inde 
finable  something  in  her  manner ;  and  it  was  with 
subdued  whispers  that  we  crowded  around  her  on  the 
piazza,  and  begged  to  know  what  it  all  meant.  It  was 

a  rare  thing  to  see  Mrs.  hesitate  for  a  reply. 

The  color  rose  in  her  face,  and,  with  a  half-nervous 
attempt  at  a  smile,  she  finally  said,  "Well,  girls,  I  sup 
pose  you  will  all  laugh  at  me  ;  but  the  truth  is,  I  heard 


THE  KING'S  FRIEND.  151 

that  man  say  his  prayers  this  morning.  You  know 
his  room  is  next  to  mine,  and  there  is  a  great  crack  in 
the  door.  I  heard  him  praying,  this  morning,  for  ten 
minutes,  just  before  breakfast ;  and  I  never  heard  such 
tones  in  my  life.  I  don't  pretend  to  be  religious  ;  but 
I  must  own  it  was  a  wonderful  thing  to  hear  a  man 
talking  with  God  as  he  did.  And  when  I  saw  him  at 
table,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  looking  in  the  face  of  some 
one  who  had  just  come  out  of  the  presence  of  the 
King  of  kings,  and  had  the  very  air  of  heaven  about 
him.  I  can't  help  what  the  rest  of  you  do  or  say  ;  / 
shall  always  have  the  same  feeling  whenever  I  see 
him."' 

There  was  a  magnetic  earnestness  in  her  tone  and 
look,  which  we  all  felt,  and  which  some  of  us  will 
never  forget. 

During  the  few  remaining  days  of  his  stay  with  us, 
that  untutored,  uninteresting,  stupid  man  knew  no 
lack  of  friendly  courtesy  at  our  hands.  We  were  the 
better  for  his  homely  presence  ;  unawares,  he  minis 
tered  unto  us.  When  we  knew  that  he  came  directly 
from  speaking  to  the  Master  to  speak  to  us,  we  felt 
that  he  was  greater  than  we,  and  we  remembered  that 
it  is  written, "  If  any  man  serve  me,  him  will  my  Father 
honor." 


152  BITS  OF  TALK 


LEARNING    TO    SPEAK. 

"YT  7ITH  what  breathless  interest  we  listen  for  the 
*  *  baby's  first  word  !  What  a  new  bond  is  at  once 
and  for  ever  established  between  its  soul  and  ours  by 
this  mysterious,  inexplicable,  almost  incredible  fact ! 
That  is  the  use  of  the  word.  That  is  its  only  use,  so 
far  as  mere  gratification  of  the  ear  goes.  Many  other 
sounds  are  more  pleasurable, — the  baby's  laugh,  for 
instance,  or  its  inarticulate  murmurs  of  content  or 
sleepiness. 

But  the  word  is  a  revelation,  a  sacred  sign.  Now 
we  shall  know  what  our  beloved  one  wants  ;  now  we 
shall  know  when  and  why  the  dear  heart  sorrows  or  is 
glad.  How  reassured  we  feel,  how  confident !  Now  we 
cannot  make  mistakes  ;  we  shall  do  all  for  the  best ;  we 
can  give  happiness  ;  we  can  communicate  wisdom ; 
relation  is  established  ;  the  perplexing  gulf  of  silence  is 
bridged.  The  baby  speaks  ! 

But  it  is  not  of  the  baby's  learning  to  speak  that  we 
propose  to  write  here.  All  babies  learn  to  speak ;  or, 
if  they  do  not,  we  know  that  it  means  a  terrible  visita 
tion,  —  a  calamity  rare,  thank  God  !  but  bitter  almost 
beyond  parents'  strength  to  bear. 

But  why,  having  once  learned  to  speak,  does  the 


LEARNING  TO  SPEAK.  153 

baby  leave  off  speaking  when  it  becomes  a  man  or  a 
woman  ?  Many  of  our  men  and  women  to-day  need, 
almost  as  much  as  when  they  were  twenty-four  months 
old,  to  learn  to  speak.  We  do  not  mean  learning  to 
speak  in  public.  We  do  not  mean  even  learning  to 
speak  well, — to  pronounce  words  clearly  and  accu 
rately  ;  though  there  is  need  enough  of  that  in  this 
land  !  But  that  is  not  the  need  at  which  we  are  aim 
ing  now.  We  mean  something  so  much  simpler,  so 
much  further  back,  that  we  hardly  know  how  to  say  it 
in  words  which  shall  be  simple  enough  and  also  suffi 
ciently  strong.  We  mean  learning  to  speak  at  all! 
In  spite  of  all  which  satirical  writers  have  said  and  say 
of  the  loquacious  egotism,  the  questioning  curiosity  of 
our  people,  it  is  true  to-day  that  the  average  American 
is  a  reticent,  taciturn,  speechless  creature,  who,  for  his 
own  sake,  and  still  more  for  the  sake  of  all  who  love 
him,  needs,  more  than  he  needs  any  thing  else  under 
heaven,  to  learn  to  speak. 

Look  at  our  silent  railway  and  horse-cars,  steamboat- 
cabins,  hotel-tables,  in  short,  all  our  public  places 
where  people  are  thrown  together  incidentally,  and 
where  good- will  and  the  habit  of  speaking  combined 
would  create  an  atmosphere  of  human  vitality,  quite 
unlike  what  we  see  now.  But  it  is  not  of  so  much  con 
sequence,  after  all,  whether  people  speak  in  these  public 
places  or  not.  If  they  did,  one  very  unpleasant  phase 
of  our  national  life  would  be  greatly  changed  for  the 
better.  But  it  is  in  our  homes  that  this  speechlessness 
tells  most  fearfully,  —  on  the  breakfast  and  dinner  and 


154  BITS  OF  TALK. 

tea-tables,  at  which  a  silent  father  and  mother  sit  down 
in  haste  and  gloom  to  feed  their  depressed  children. 
This  is  especially  true  of  men  and  women  in  the  rural 
districts.  They  are  tired  ;  they  have  more  work  to  do 
in  a  year  than  it  is  easy  to  do.  Their  lives  are  monoto 
nous,  —  too  much  so  for  the  best  health  of  either  mind 
or  body.  If  they  dreamed  how  much  this  monotony 
.could  be  broken  and  cheered  by  the  constant  habit  of 
talking  with  each  other,  they  would  grasp  at  the  slight 
est  chance  of  a  conversation.  Sometimes  it  almost 
seems  as  if  complaints  and  antagonism  were  better 
than  such  stagnant  quiet.  But  there  need  not  be  com 
plaint  and  antagonism ;  there  is  no  home  so  poor,  so 
remote  from  affairs,  that  each  day  does  not  bring  and 
set  ready,  for  family  welcome  and  discussion,  beautiful 
sights  and  sounds,  occasions  for  helpfulness  and  grati 
tude,  questions  for  decision,  hopes,  fears,  regrets  !  The 
elements  of  human  life  are  the  same  for  ever ;  any  one 
heart  holds  in  itself  the  whole,  can  give  all  things  to 
another,  can  bear  all  things  for  another ;  but  no  giv 
ing,  no  bearing,  no,  not  even  if  it  is  the  giving  up  of  a 
life,  if  it  is  done  without  free,  full,  loving  interchange 
of  speech,  is  half  the  blessing  it  might  be. 

Many  a  wife  goes  down  to  her  grave  a  dulled  and 
dispirited  woman  simply  because  her  good  and  faith 
ful  husband  has  lived  by  her  side  without  talking  to 
her !  There  have  been  days  when  one  word  of  praise, 
or  one  word  even  of  simple  good  cheer,  would  have 
girded  her  up  with  new  strength.  She  did  not  know, 
very  likely,  what  she  needed,  or  that  she  needed  any 
thing  ;  but  she  drooped. 


LEARNING    TO  SPEAK.  155 

Many  a  child  grows  up  a  hard,  unimpressionable, 
unloving  man  or  woman  simply  from  the  uncheered 
silence  in  which  the  first  ten  years  of  life  were  passed. 
Very  few  fathers  and  mothers,  even  those  who  are 
fluent,  perhaps,  in  society,  habitually  talk  with  their 
children. 

It  is  certain  that  this  is  one  of  the  worst  shortcom 
ings  of  our  homes.     Perhaps  no  other  single  change  ' 
would  do  so  much  to  make  them  happier,  and,  there 
fore,  to  make  our  communities  better,  as  for  men  and 
women  to  learn  to  speak. 


156  BITS  OF  TALK. 


PRIVATE    TYRANTS. 

TT  7E  recognize  tyranny  when  it  wears  a  crown  and 
*^  sits  on  an  hereditary  throne.  We  sympathize 
with  nations  that  overthrow  the  thrones,  and  in  our 
secret  hearts  we  almost  canonize  individuals  who  slay 
the  tyrants.  From  the  days  of  Ehud  and  Eglon  down 
to  those  of  Charlotte  Corday  and  Marat,  the  world  has 
dealt  tenderly  with  their  names  whose  hands  have  been 
red  with  the  blood  of  oppressors.  On  moral  grounds 
it  would  be  hard  to  justify  this  sentiment,  murder  be 
ing  murder  all  the  same,  however  great  gain  it  may  be 
to  this  world  to  have  the  murdered  man  put  out  of  it ; 
but  that  there  is  such  a  sentiment,  instinctive  and 
strong  in  the  human  soul,  there  is  no  denying.  It  is 
so  instinctive  and  so  strong  that,  if  we  watch  our 
selves  closely,  we  shall  find  it  giving  alarming  shape 
sometimes  to  our  secret  thoughts  about  our  neigh 
bors. 

How  many  communities,  how  many  households  even, 
are  without  a  tyrant?  If  we  could  "move  for  returns 
of  suffering, '  as  that  tender  and  thoughtful  man,  Arthur 
Helps,  says,  we  should  find  a  far  heavier  aggregate  of 


PRIVATE  TYRANTS.  157 

misery  inflicted  by  unsuspected,  unresisted  tyrannies 
than  by  those  which  are  patent  to  everybody,  and  sure 
to  be  overthrown  sooner  or  later. 

An  exhaustive  sermon  on  this  subject  should  be  set 
off  in  three  divisions,  as  follows  :  — 

PRIVATE  TYRANTS. 

1st.  Number  of — 
zd.  Nature  of — 
^d.  Longevity  of — 

First.  Their  number.  They  are  not  enumerated  in 
any  census.  Not  even  the  most  painstaking  statistician 
has  meddled  with  the  topic.  Fancy  takes  bold  leaps  at 
the  very  suggestion  of  such  an  estimate,  and  begins  to 
think  at  once  of  all  things  in  the  universe  which  are 
usually  mentioned  as  beyond  numbering.  Probably 
one  good  way  of  getting  at  a  certain  sort  of  result  would 
be  to  ask  each  person  of  one's  acquaintance,  "  Do  you 
happen  to  know  a  private  tyrant  ?  " 

How  well  we  know  beforehand  the  replies  we  should 
get  from  some  beloved  men  and  women,  —  that  is,  if 
they  spoke  the  truth  ! 

But  they  would  not.  That  is  the  saddest  thing  about 
these  private  tyrannies.  They  are  in  many  cases  borne 
in  such  divine  and  uncomplaining  silence  by  their  vic 
tims,  perhaps  for  long  yetirs,  that  the  world  never  dreams 
of  their  existence.  But  at  last  the  fine,  subtle  writing, 
which  no  control,  no  patience,  no  will  can  thwart,  be- 


158  BITS  OF  TALK 

comes  set  on  the  man's  or  the  woman's  face,  and  tells 
the  whole  record.  Who  does  not  know  such  faces  ? 
Cheerful  usually,  even  gay,  brave,  and  ready  with  lines 
of  smile ;  but  in  repose  so  mark'ed,  so  scarred  with 
unutterable  weariness  and  disappointment,  that  tears 
spring  in  the  eyes  and  love  in  the  hearts  of  all  finely 
organized  persons  who  meet  them. 

Secondly.  Nature  of  private  tyrants.  Here  also  the 
statistician  has  not  entered.  The  field  is  vast ;  the 
analysis  difficult. 

Selfishness  is,  of  course,  their  leading  characteristic  ; 
in  fact,  the  very  sum  and  substance  of  their  natures. 
But  selfishness  is  Protean.  It  has  as  many  shapes 
as  there  are  minutes,  and  as  many  excuses  and 
wraps  of  sheep's  clothing  as  ever  ravening  wolf  pos 
sessed. 

One  of  its  commonest  pleas  is  that  of  weakness. 
Here  it  often  is  so  inextricably  mixed  with  genuine 
need  and  legitimate  claim  that  one  grows  bewildered 
between  sympathy  and  resentment.  In  this  shape, 
however,  it  gets  its  cruelest  dominion  over  strong  and 
generous  and  tender  people.  This  kind  of  tyranny 
builds  up  and  fortifies  its  'bulwarks  on  and  out  of  the 
very  virtues  of  its  victims ;  it  gains  strength  hourly 
from  the  very  strength  of  the  strength  to  which  it  ap 
peals  ;  each  slow  and  fatal  encroachment  never  seems 
at  first  so  much  a  thing  required  as  a  thing  offered ; 
but,  like  the  slow  sinking  inch  by  inch  of  that  great, 
beautiful  city  of  stone  into  the  relentless  Adriatic,  so  is 
the  slow,  sure  going  down  and  loss  of  the  freedom  of  a 


PRIVATE  TYRANTS.  159 

strong,  beautiful  soul,  helpless  in  the  omnipresent  cir 
cumference  of  the  selfish  nature  to  which  it  is  or 
believes  itself  bound. 

That  the  exactions  never  or  rarely  take  shape  in 
words  is,  to  the  unbiassed  looker-on,  only  an  exasperat 
ing  feature  in  their  tyranny.  While  it  saves  the  con 
science  of  the  tyrant,  —  if  such  tyrants  have  any,  —  it 
makes  doubly  sure  the  success  of  their  tyranny.  And 
probably  nothing  short  of  revelation  from  Heaven,  in 
shape  of  blinding  light,  would  ever  open  their  eyes  to 
the  fact  that  it  is  even  more  selfish  to  hold  a  generous 
spirit  fettered  hour  by  hour  by  a  constant  fear  of  giving 
pain  than  to  coerce  or  threaten  or  scold  them  into  the 
desired  behavior.  Invalids,  all  invalids,  stand  in  deadly 
peril  of  becoming  tyrants  of  this  order.  A  chronic  in 
valid  who  entirely  escapes  it  must  be  so  nearly  saint  or 
angel  that  one  instinctively  feels  as  if  such  invalid- 
ism  would  soon  end  in  the  health  of  heaven.  We 
know  of  one  invalid  woman,  chained  to  her  bed  for  long 
years  by  an  incurable  disease,  who  has  had  the  insight 
and  strength  to  rise  triumphant  above  this  danger.  Her 
constant  wish  and  entreaty  is  that  her  husband  should 
go  freely  into  all  the  work  and  the  pleasure  of  life. 
Whenever  he  leaves  her,  her  farewell  is  not,  "  How 
soon  do  you  think  you  shall  come  back  ?  At  what  hour, 
or  day,  may  I  look  for  you  ?  "  but,  "  Now,  pray  stay 
just  as  long  as  you  enjoy  it.  If  you  hurry  home  one 
hour  sooner  for  the  thought  of  me,  I  shall  be  wretched." 
It  really  seems  almost  as  if  the  longer  he  stayed  away, 
—  hours,  days,  weeks  even,  —  the  happier  she  were. 


160  BITS  OF  TALK. 

By  this  sweet  and  wise  unselfishness  she  has  succeeded 
in  realizing  the  whole  blessedness  of  wifehood  far  more 
than  many  women  who  have  health.  But  we  doubt 
if  any  century  sees  more  than  one  such  woman  as 
she  is. 

Another  large  class,  next  to  that  of  invalids  the  most 
difficult  to  deal  with,  is  made  up  of  people  who  are  by 
nature  or  by  habit  uncomfortably  sensitive  or  irritable. 
Who  has  not  lived  at  one  time  or  other  in  his  life  in 
daily  contact  with  people  of  this  sort, — persons  whose 
outbreaks  of  temper,  or  of  wounded  feeling  still  worse 
than  temper,  were  as  incalculable  as  meteoric  showers  ? 
The  suppressed  atmosphere,  the  chronic  state  of  alarm 
and  misgiving,  in  which  the  victims  of  this  species  of 
tyranny  live  are  withering  and  exhausting  to  the  stout 
est  hearts.  They  are  also  hardening ;  perpetually  hav 
ing  to  wonder  and  watch  how  people  will  "  take  "  things 
is  apt  sooner  or  later  to  result  in  indifference  as  to 
whether  they  take  them  well  or  ill. 
-  But  to  define  all  the  shapes  of  private  tyranny  would 
require  whole  histories  ;  it  is  safe,  however,  to  say  that 
so  far  as  any  human  being  attempts  to  set  up  his  own 
individual  need  or  preference  as  law  to  determine  the 
action  of  any  other  human  being,  in  small  matters  or 
great,  so  far  forth  he  is  a  tyrant.  The  limit  of  his 
tyranny  may  be  narrowed  by  lack  of  power  on  his  part, 
or  of  response  on  the  part  of  his  fellows  ;  but  its  essence 
is  as  purely  tyrannous  as  if  he  sat  on  a  throne  with  an 
executioner  within  call. 

Thirdly.  Longevity  of  private  tyrants.     We  have 


PRIVATE  TYRANTS.  Ifrl 

not  room  under  this  head  to  do  more  —  nor,  if  we  had 
all  room,  could  we  do  better — than  to  quote  a  short 
paragraph  from  George  Eliof  s  immortal  Mrs.  Poyser : 
"  It  seems  as  if  them  as  aren't  wanted  here  are  th'  only 
folks  as  aren't  wanted  i'  th'  other  world." 


1 62  BITS  OF  TALK. 


MARGIN. 

\T  71  DE-MARGIN  ED  pages  please  us  at  first  sight 
*  *  We  do  not  stop  to  ask  why.  It  has  passed  into 
an  accepted  rule  that  all  e  <•  gant  books  must  have  broad, 
clear  margins  to  their  pages.  We  as  much  recognize 
such  margins  among  the  indications  of  promise  in  a 
book>  as  we  do  fineness  of  paper,  clearness  of  type,  and 
beauty  of  binding.  All  three  of  these  last,  even  in 
perfection,  could  not  make  any  book  beautiful,  or 
sightly,  whose  pages  had  been  left  narrow-margined 
and  crowded.  This  is  no  arbitrary  decree  of  -custom, 
no  chance  preference  of  an  accredited  authority.  It 
would  be  dangerous  to  set  limit  to  the  power  of  fashion 
in  any  thing  ;  and  yet  it  seems  almost  safe  to  say  that 
not  even  fashion  itself  can  ever  make  a  narrow-mar 
gined  page  look  other  than  shabby  and  mean.  This 
inalienable  right  of  the  broad  margin  to  oar  esteem  is 
significant.  It  lies  deep.  The  broad  margin  means 
something  which  is  not  measured  by  inches,  has  noth 
ing  to  do  with  fashions  of  shape.  It  means  room  for 
notes,  queries,  added  by  any  man's  hand  who  reads. 
Meaning  this,  it  means  also  much  more  than  this,  — 
far  more  than  the  mere  letter  of  "  right  of  way."  It  is 


MARGIN.  163 

a  fine  courtesy  of  recognition  that  no  one  page  shall 
ever  say  the  whole  of  its  own  message  ;  be  exhaustive, 
or  ultimate,  even  of  its  own  topic  ;  determine  or  enforce 
its  own  opinion,  to  the  shutting  out  of  others.  No 
matter  if  the  book  live  and  grow  old,  without  so  much 
as  an  interrogation  point  or  a  line  of  enthusiastic  ad 
miration  drawn  in  it  by  human  hand,  still  the  gracious 
import  and  suggestion  of  its  broad  white  spaces  are  the 
same.  Each  thought  invites  its  neighbor,  stands  fairly 
to  right  or  left  of  its  opponent,  and  wooes  its  friend. 

Thinking  on  this,  we  presently  discover  that  margin 
means  a  species  of  freedom.  No  wonder  the  word, 
and  the"  thing  it  represents,  wherever  we  find  them, 
delight  us. 

We  use  the  word  constantly  in  senses  which,  speak 
ing  carelessly,  we  should  have  called  secondary  and 
borrowed.  Now  we  see  that  its  application  to  pages, 
or  pictures,  or  decorations,  and  so  forth,  was  the  bor 
rowed  and  secondary  use  ;  and  that  primarily  its  mean 
ing  is  spiritual. 

We  must  have  margin,  or  be  uncomfortable  in  every 
thing  in  life.  Our  plan  for  a  day,  for  a  week,  for  our 
lifetime,  must  have  it,  —  margin  for  change  of  purpose, 
margin  for  interruption,  margin  for  accident.  Making 
no  allowance  for  these,  we  are  fettered,  we  are  dis 
turbed,  we  are  thwarted. 

Is  there  a  greater  misery  than  to  be  hurried  ?  If  we 
leave  ourselves  proper  margin,  we  never  need  to  be 
hurried.  We  always  shall  be,  if  we  crowd  our  plan. 
People  pant,  groan,  and  complain  as  if  hurry  were  a 


1 64  BITS  OF  TALK. 

thing  outside  of  themselves,  —  an  enemy,  a  monster,  a 
disease  which  overtook  them,  and  against  which  they 
had  no  shelter.  It  is  hard  to  be  patient  with  such  non 
sense.  Hurry  is  almost  the  only  known  misery  which 
it  is  impossible  to  have  brought  upon  one  by  other 
people's  fault. 

If  our  plan  of  action  for  an  hour  or  a  day  be  so  fatally 
spoiled  by  lack  of  margin,  what  shall  we  say  of  the  mis 
take  of  the  man  who  leave^  himself  no  margin  in  mat 
ters  of  belief?  No  room  for  a  wholesome,  healthy 
doubt  ?  No  provision  for  an  added  enlightenment  ? 
No  calculation  for  the  inevitable  progress  of  human 
knowledge  ?  This  is,  in  our  eyes,  the  crying  sin  and 
danger  of  elaborate  creeds,  rigid  formulas  of  exact 
statement  on  difficult  and  hidden  mysteries. 

The  man  who  is  ready  to  give  pledge  that  the  opinion 
he  will  hold  to-morrow  will  be  precisely  the  opinion  he 
holds  to-day  has  either  thought  very  little,  or  to  little 
purpose,  or  has  resolved  to  quit  thinking  altogether. 


THE  FINE  ART  OF  SMILING.  165 


THE  FINE   ART   OF   SMILING. 

• 

O  OM5  theatrical  experiments  are  being  made  at  this 
^  time  to  show  that  all  possible  emotions  and  all 
shades  and*  gradations  of  emotion  can  be  expressed  by 
facial  action,  and  that  the  method  of  so  expressing 
them  can  be  reduced  to  a  system,  and  taught  in  a 
given  number  of  lessons.  It  seems  a  matter  of  ques 
tion  whether  one  would  be  likely  to  make  love  or 
evince  sorrow  any  more  successfully  by  keeping  in 
mind  all  the  while  the  detailed  catalogue  of  his  flexors 
and  extensors,  and  contracting  and  relaxing  No.  I,  2, 
or  3,  according  to  rule.  The  human  memory  is  a 
treacherous  thing,  and  what  an  enormous  disaster 
would  result  from  a  very  slight  forgetfulness  in  such  a 
nicely  adjusted  system  !  The  fatal  effect  of  dropping 
the  superior  maxillary  when  one  intended  to  drop  the 
inferior,  or  of  applying  nervous  stimuli  to  the  up  track, 
instead  of  the  down,  can  easily  be  conceived.  Art  is 
art,  after  all,  be  it  ever  so  skilful  and  triumphant,  and 
science  is  only  a  slow  reading  of  hieroglyphs.  Nature 
sits  high  and  serene  above  both,  and  smiles  compas- 


1 66  BITS  OF  TALK 

sionately  on  their  efforts  to  imitate  and  understand. 
And  this  brings  us  to  what  we  have  to  say  about  smil 
ing,  Do  many  people  feel  what  a  wonderful  thing  it  is 
that  each  human  being  is  born  into  the  world  with  his 
own  smile  ?  Eyes,  nose,  mouth,  may  be  merely  aver 
age  commonplace  features  ;  may  look,  taken  singly, 
very  much  like  anybody's  else  eyes,  nose,  or  mouth. 
Let  whoever  doubts  this  try  the  simple  but  endlessly 
amusing  experiment  of  setting  half  a  dozen  people 
behind  a  perforated  curtain,  and  making  them  put 
their  eyes  at  the  holes.  Not  one  eye  in  a  hundred 
can  be  recognized,  even  by  most  familiar  and  loving 
friends.  But  study  smiles  ;  observe,  even  in  the  most 
casual  way,  the  variety  one  sees  in  a  day,  and  it  will 
soon  be  felt  what  subtle  revelation  they  make,  what 
infinite  individuality  they  possess. 

The  purely  natural  smile,  however,  is  seldom  seen 
in  adults  ;  and  it  is  on  this  point  that  we  wish  to  dwell. 
Very  early  in  life  people  find  out  that  a  smile  is  a 
weapon,  mighty  to  avail  in  all  sorts  of  crises.  Hence, 
we  see  the  treacherous  smile  of  the  wily ;  the  patron 
izing  smile  of  the  pompous  ;  the  obsequious  smile  of 
the  flatterer ;  the  cynical  smile  of  the  satirist.  Very 
few  of  these  have  heard  of  Delsarte  ;  but  they  outdo 
him  on  his  own  grounds.  Their  smile  is  four-fifths  of 
their  social  stock  in  trade.  All  such  smiles  are  hideous. 
The  gloomiest,  blankest  look  which  a  human  face  can 
wear  is  welcomer  than  a  trained  smile  or  a  smile 
•which,  if  it  is  not  actually  and  consciously  methodized 
by  its  perpetrator,  has  become,  by  long  repetition,  so 


THE  FINE  ART  OF  SMILING.  167 

associated  with  tricks  and  falsities  that  it  partakes  of 
their  quality. 

What,  then,  is  the  fine  art  of  smiling  ? 

If  smiles  may  not  be  used  for  weapons  or  masks,  ot 
what  use  are  they  ?  That  is  the  shape  one  would 
think  the  question  took  in  most  men's  minds,  if  we 
may  judge  by  their  behavior  !  There  are  but  two 
legitimate  purposes  of  the  smile  ;  but  two  honest 
smiles.  On  all  little  children's  faces  such  smiles  are 
seen.  Woe  to  us  that  we  so  soon  waste  and  lose 
them  ! 

The  first  use  of  the  smile  is  to  express  affectionate 
good-will ;  the  second,  to  express  mirth. 

Why  do  we  not  always  smile  whenever  we  meet  the 
eye  of  a  fellow-being  ?  That  is  the  true,  intended  rec 
ognition  which  ought  to  pass  from  soul  to  soul  con 
stantly.  Little  children,  in  simple  communities,  do 
this  involuntarily,  unconsciously.  The  honest-hearted 
German  peasant  does  it.  It  is  like  magical  sunlight 
all  through  that  simple  land,  the  perpetual  greeting 
on  the  right  hand  and  on  the  left,  between  strangers, 
as  they  pass  by  each  other,  never  without  a  smile. 
This,  then,  is  "  the  fine  art  of  smiling  ;  "  like  all  fine 
art,  true  art,  perfection  of  art,  the  simplest  following 
of  Nature. 

Now' and  then  one  sees  a  face  which  has  kept  its 
smile  pure  and  undefiled.  It  is  a  woman's  face  usu 
ally  ;  often  a  face  which  has  trace  of  great  sorrow  all 
over  it,  till  the  smile  breaks.  Such  a  smile  trans- 


1 68  BITS  OF  TALK. 

figures  ;  such  a  smile,  if  the  artful  but  knew  it,  is  the 
greatest  weapon-  a  face  can  have.  Sickness  and  age 
cannot  turn  its  edge  ;  hostility  and  distrust  cannot 
withstand  its  spell ;  little  children  know  it,  and  smile 
back ;  even  dumb  animals  come  closer,  and  look  up 
for  another. 

If  one  were  asked  to  sum  up  in  one  single  rule  what 
would  most  conduce  to  beauty  in  the  human  face,  one 
might  say  therefore,  "  Never  tamper  with  your  smile  ; 
never  once  use  it  for  a  purpose.  Let  it  be  on  your 
face  like  the  reflection  of  the  sunlight  on  a  lake.  Af 
fectionate  good-will  to  all  men  must  be  the  sunlight, 
and  your  face  is  the  lake.  But,  unlike  the  sunlight, 
your  good-will  must  be  perpetual,  and  your  face  must 
never  be  overcast." 

"  What !  smile  perpetually  ?  "  says  the  realist.  "  How 
silly  ! " 

Yes,  smile  perpetually  !  Go  to  Delsarte  here,  and 
learn  even  from  the  mechanician  of  smiles  that  a 
smile  can  be  indicated  by  a  movement  of  muscles  so 
slight  that  neither  instruments  nor  terms  exist  to 
measure  or  state  it ;  in  fact,  that  the  subtlest  smile  is 
little  more  than  an  added  brightness  to  the  eye  and  .a 
tremulousness  of  the  mouth.  One  second  of  time  is 
more  than  long  enough  for  it ;  but  eternity  does  not 
outlast  it. 

In  that  wonderfully  wise  and  tender  and  poetic 
book,  the  "  Layman's  Breviary,"  Leopold  Schefer 
says,  — 


THE  FINE  ART  OF  SMILING.  169 

"A  smile  suffices  to  smile  death  awny; 
And  love  defends  thee  e'en  from  wrath  divine ! 
Then  let  what  may  befall  thee,  —  still  smile  on! 
And  howe'er  Death  may  rob  thee,  —  still  smile  on! 
Love  never  has  to  meet  a  bitter  thing; 
A  paradise  blooms  around  him  who  smiles." 


17°  BITS  OF  TALK. 


DEATH-BED    REPENTANCE. 

T  long  since,  a  Congregationalist  clergyman, 
who  had  been  for  forty-one  years  in  the  minis 
try,  said  in  my  hearing,  "  I  have  never,  in  all  my 
experience  as  a  pastor,  known  of  a  single  instance  in 
which  a  repentance  on  what  was  supposed  to  be  a 
death-bed  proved  to  be  of  any  value  whatever  after  the 
person  recovered." 

This  was  strong  language.  I  involuntarily  ex 
claimed,  "  Have  you  known  many  such  cases  ?  " 

"  More  than  I  dare  to  remember." 

"  And  as  many  more,  perhaps,  where  the  person 
died." 

"  Yes,  fully  as  many  more. 

"  Then  did  not  the  bitter  failure  of  these  death 
bed  repentances  to  bear  the  tests  of  time  shake  your 
confidence  in  their  value  under  the  tests  of  eter 
nity  ?  " 

"  It  did,  —  it  does,"  said  the  clergyman,  with  tears 
in  his  eyes.  The  conversation  made  a  deep  impres 
sion  on  my  mind.  It  was  strong  evidence,  from  a 
quarter  in  which  I  least  looked  for  it,  of  the  utter 
paltriness  and  insufficiency  of  fear  as  a  motive  when 


DEATH-BED  REPENTANCE.  l*Jl 

brought  to  bear  upon  decisions  in  spiritual  things. 
There  seem  to  be  no  words  strong  enough  to  stigma 
tize  it  in  all  other  affairs  except  spiritual.  All  ages, 
all  races,  hold  cowardice  chief  among  vices  ;  noble 
barbarians  punished  it  with  death.  Even  civiliza 
tion  the  most  cautiously  legislated  for,  does  the 
same  thing  when  a  soldier  shows  it  "  in  face  of  the 
enemy."  Language,  gathering  itself  up  and  concen 
trating  its  force  to  describe  base  behavior,  can  do  no 
more  than  call  it  "  cowardly."  No  instinct  of  all  the 
blessed  body-guard  of  instincts  born  with  us  seems  in 
the  outset  a  stronger  one  than  the  instinct  that  to  be 
noble,  one  must  be  brave.  Almost  in  the  cradle  the 
baby  taunts  or  is  taunted  by  the  accusation  of  being 
"  afraid."  And  the  sting  of  the  taunt  lies  in  the  prob 
ability  of  its  truth.  For  in  all  men,  alas  !  is  born  a 
certain  selfish  weakness,  to  which  fear  can  address 
itself.  But  how  strange  does  it  appear  that  they  who 
wish  to  inculcate  noblest  action,  raise  to  most  exalted 
spiritual  conditions,  should  appeal  to  this  lowest  of 
motives  to  help  them  !  We  believe  that  there  are 
many  "  death-bed  repentances  "  among  hale,  hearty 
sinners,  who  are  approached  by  the  same  methods, 
stimulated  by  the  same  considerations,  frightened  by 
the  same  conceptions  of  possible  future  suffering,  which 
so  often  make  the  chambers  of  dying  men  dark  with 
terrors.  Fear  is  fear  all  the  same  whether  its  dread 
be  for  the  next  hour  or  the  next  century.  The  closer 
the  enemy,  the  swifter  it  runs.  That  is  all  the  differ 
ence.  Let  the  enemy  be  surely  and  plainly  removed, 


172  BITS  OF  TALK. 

and  in  one  instance  it  is  no  more,  —  is  as  if  it  had 
never  been.  Every  thought,  word,  or  action  based 
upon  it  has  come  to  end. 

I  was  forcibly  reminded  of  the  conversation  above 
quoted  by  some  observations  I  once  had  opportu 
nity  of  making  at  a  Methodist  camp-meeting.  Much 
of  the  preaching  and  exhortation  consisted  sim 
ply  and  solely  of  urgent,  impassioned  appeals  to 
the  people  to  repent,  —  not  because  repentance  is 
right ;  not  because  God  is  love,  and  it  is  base  not 
to  love  and  obey  him  ;  not  even  because  godliness 
is  in  itself  great  gain,  and  sinfulness  is,  even  tempo 
rarily,  loss  and  ruin  ;  but  because  there  is  a  wrath  to 
come,  which  will'  inflict  terrible  and  unending  suffering 
on  the  sinner.  He  is  to  "  flee  "  for  his  life  from  tor 
ments  indescribable  and  eternal ;  he  is  to  call  on 
Jesus,  not  to  make  him  holy,  but  to  save  him  from 
woe,  to  rescue  him  from  frightful  danger ;  all  and 
every  thing  else  is  subordinate  to  the  one  selfish  idea 
of  escaping  future  misery.  The  effect  of  these  ap 
peals,  of  these  harrowing  pictures,  on  some  of  the 
young  men  and  women  and  children  was  almost  too 
painful  to  be  borne.  They  were  in  an  hysterical  con 
dition,  —  weeping  from  sheer  nervous  terror.  When 
the  excitement  had  reached  its  highest  pitch,  an  elder 
rose  and  told  the  story  of  a  wicked  and  impenitent 
man  whom  he  had  visited  a  few  weeks  before.  The 
man  had  assented  to  all  that  he  told  him  of  the  neces 
sity  of  repentance  ;  but  said  that  he  was  not  at  leisure 
that  day  to  attend  the  class  meeting.  He  resolved 


DEATH-BED  REPENTANCE.  173 

and  promised,  however,  to  do  so  the  next  week.  That 
very  night  he  was  taken  ill  with  a  disease  ot  the 
brain,  and,  after  three  days  of  unconsciousness,  died. 
I  would  not  like  to  quote  here  the  emphasis  of  ap 
plication  which  was  made  of  this  story  to  the  terrors 
of  the  weeping  young  people.  Under  its  influence 
several  were  led,  almost  carried  by  force,  into  the 
anxious  seats. 

It  was  hard  not  to  fancy  the  gentle  Christ  looking 
down  upon  the  scene  with  a  pain  as  great  as  that 
with  which  he  yearned  over  Jerusalem.  I  longed 
for  some  instant  miracle  to  be  wrought  on  the  spot, 
by  which  there  should  £ome  floating  down  from  the 
'peaceful  blue  sky,  through  the  sweet  tree-tops,  some 
of  the  loving  and  serene  words  of  balm  from  his 
Gospel. 

Theologians  may  theorize,  and  good  Christians 
may  differ  (they  always  will)  as  to  the  existence,  ex 
tent,  and  nature  of  future  punishment ;  but  the  fact 
remains  indisputably  clear  that,  whether  there  be  less 
or  more  of  it,  whether  it  be  of  this  sort  or  of  that, 
fear  of  it  is  a  base  motive  to  appeal  to,  a  false  motive 
to  act  from,  and -a  worthless  motive  to  trust  in.  Per 
fect  love  does  not  know  it ;  spiritual  courage  resents 
it ;  the  true  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  never  taken  by 
its  "violence." 

Somewhere  (I  wish  I  knew  where,  and  I  wish 
I  knew  from  whose  lips)  I  once  found  this  im 
mortal  sentence  :  "  A  woman  went  through  the 
streets  of  Alexandria,  bearing  a  jar  of  water  and  a 


174  BITS  OF  TALK. 

lighted  torch,  and  crying  aloud,  <  With  this  torch  I 
will  burn  up  Heaven,  and  with  this  water  I  will 
put  out  Hell,  that  God  may  be  loved  for  himself 
alone.' » 


THE  CORRELATION  OF  MORAL  FORCES.    175 


THE    CORRELATION    OF  MORAL  FORCES. 

O  CIENCE  has  dealt  and  delved  patiently  with  the 
*^  laws  of  matter.  From  Cuvier  to  Huxley,  we  have 
a  long  line  of  clear-eyed  workers.  The  gravitating 
force  between  all  molecules  ;  the  law  of  continuity ; 
the  inertial  force  of  matter  ;  the  sublime  facts  of  organic 
co-ordination  and  adaptation, — all  these  are  recognized, 
analyzed,  recorded,  taught.  We  have  learned  that  the 
true  meaning  of  the  word  law,  as  applied  to  Nature,  is 
not  decree,  but  formula  of  invariable  order,  immutable 
as  the  constitution  of  ultimate  units  of  matter.  Order 
is  not  imposed  upon  Nature.  Order  is  result.  Physi 
cal  science  does  not  confuse  these  ;  it  never  mistakes 
nor  denies  specific  function,  organic  progression,  cycli 
cal  growth.  It  knows  that  there"  is  no  such  thing  as 
evasion,  interruption,  substitution. 

When  shall  we  have  a  Cuvier,  a  Huxley,  a  Tyndall 
for  the  immaterial  world,  —  the  realm  of  spiritual  ex 
istence,  moral  growth  ?  Nature  is  one.  The  things 
which  we  have  clumsily  and  impertinently  dared  to  set 
off  by  themselves,  and  label  as  "immaterial,"  are  no 
less  truly  component  parts  or  members  of  the  real 


I76  BITS  OF  TALK. 

frame  of  natural  existence  than  are  molecules  of  oxy 
gen  or  crystals  of  diamond.  We  believe  in  the  exist 
ence  of  one  as  much  as  in  the  existence  of  the  other. 
In  fact,  if  there  be  balance  of  proof  in  favor  of  either, 
it  is  not  in  favor  of  the  existence  of  what  we  call  mat 
ter.  All  the  known-  sensible  qualities  of  matter  are 
ultimately  referable  to  immaterial  forces,  —  "forces 
acting  from  points  or  volumes  ; "  and  whether  these 
points  are  occupied  by  positive  substance,  or  "mat 
ter"  as  it  is  usually  conceived,  cannot  to-day  be 
proved.  Yet  many  men  have  less  absolute  belief  in  a 
soul  than  in  nitric  acid ;  many  men  achieve  lifetimes 
of  triumph  by  the  faithful  use  and  application  of  Na 
ture's  law  —  that  is,  formula  of  uniform  .occurrence  — 
in  light,  sound,  motion,  while  they  all  the  while  outrage 
and  violate  and  hinder  every  one  of  those  sweet 
forces  equally  hers,  equally  immutable,  called  by  such 
names  as  truth,  sobriety,  chastity,  courage,  and  good 
will. 

The  suggestions  of  this  train  of  thought  are  too 
numerous  to  be  followed  out  in  the  limits  of  a  single 
.  article.  Take,  for  instance,  the  fact  of  the  identity  of 
molecules,  and  look  for  its  correlative  truth  in  the 
spiritual  universe.  Shall  we  not  thence  learn  charity, 
and  the  better  understand  the  full  meaning  of  some 
who  have  said  that  vices  were  virtues  in  excess  or 
restraint?  Taking  the  lists  of  each,  and  faithfully 
comparing  them  from  beginning  to  end,  not  one  shall 
be  found  which  will  not  confirm  this  seemingly  para 
doxical-  statement. 


THE  CORRELA TION  OF  MORAL  FOR CES.      1 77 

Take  the  great  fact  of  continuous  progressive  devel 
opment  which  applies  to  all  organisms,  vegetable  or 
animal,  and  see  how  it  is  one  with  the  law  that  "the 
holy  shall  be  holy  still,  the  wicked  shall  be  wicked 
still." 

Dare  we  think  what  would  be  the  formula  in  state 
ment  of  spiritual  life  which  would  be  correlative  to  the 
"law  of  continuity"?  Having  dared  to  think,  then 
shall  we  use  the  expression  "little  sins,"  or  doubt  the 
terrible  absoluteness  of  exactitude  with  which  "  every 
idle  word  which  men  speak  "  shall  enter  upon  eternity 
of  reckoning. 

On  the  other  hand,  looking  at  all  existences  as 
organisms,  shall  we  be  disturbed  at  seeming  failure  ?  — 
long  periods  of  apparent  inactivity  ?  Shall  we  believe, 
for  instance,  that  Christ's  great  church  can  be  really 
hindered  in  its  appropriate  cycle  of  progressive  change 
and  adaptation  ?  That  any  true  membership  of  this 
organic  body  can  be  formed  or  annulled  by  mere  human 
interference  ?  That  the  lopping  or  burning  of  branches 
of  the  tree,  even  the  uprooting  and  burning,  of  the 
tree  itself,  this  year,  next  year,  nay,  for  hundreds  of 
years,  shall  have  power  to  annihilate  or  even  defer  the 
ultimate  organic  result  ? 

The  soul  of  man  is  not  outcast  from  this  glory,  this 
freedom,  this  safety  of  law.  We  speak  as  if  we  might 
break  it,  evade  it;  we  forget  it;  we  deny  it:  but  it 
never  forgets  us,  it  never  refuses  us  a  morsel  of  our 
estate.  In  spite  of  us,  it  protects  our  growth,  makes 
sure  of  our  development.  -In  spite  of  us,  it  takes  us 
12 


*78  BITS  OF  TALK. 

whithersoever  we  tend,  and  not  whithersoever  we  like  ; 
in  spite  of  us,  it  sometimes  saves  what  we  have  care 
lessly  perilled,  and  always  destroys  what  we  wilfully 
throw  away. 


A  SIMPLE  BILL  OF  FARE.  1 79 


>.    A    SIMPLE    BILL    OF    FARE    FOR    A 
CHRISTMAS    DINNER. 

A  LL  good  recipe-books  give  bills  of  fare  for  dif- 
"^^  ferent  occasions,  bills  of  fare  for  grand  dinners, 
bills  of  fare  for  little  dinners  ;  dinners  to  cost  so  much 
per  head  ;  dinners  "  which  can  be  easily  prepared  with 
one  servant,"  and  so  on.  They  give  bills  of  fare  for 
one  week ;  bills  of  fare  for  each  day  in  a  month,  to 
avoid  too  great  monotony  in  diet.  There  are  bills  of 
fare  for  dyspeptics  ;  bills  of  fare  for  consumptives  ; 
bills  of  fare  for  fat  people,  and  bills  of  fare  for  thin  ; 
and  bills  of  fare  for  hospitals,  asylums,  and  prisons,  as 
well  as  for  gentlemen's  houses.  But  among  them  all, 
we  never  saw  the  one  which  we  give  below.  It  has 
never  been  printed  in  any  book ;  but  it  has  been  used 
in  families.  We  are  not  drawing  on  our  imagination 
for  its  items.  We  have  sat  at  such  dinners  ;  we  have 
helped  prepare  such  dinners  ;  we  believe  in  such  din 
ners  ;  they  are  within  everybody's  means.  In  fact, 
the  most  marvellous  thing  about  this  bill  of  fare  is  that 
the  dinner  does  not  cost  a  cent.  Ho!  all  ye  that  are 
hungry  and  thirsty,  and  would  like  so  cheap  a  Christ- 


I  Bo  BITS  OF  TALK. 

mas  dinner,  listen  to  this 

BILL  OF  FARE  FOR  A  CHRISTMAS   DINNER. 

First  Course.  —  GLADNESS. 

This  must  be  served  hot.  No  two  housekeepers 
make  it  alike  ;  no  fixed  rule  can  be  given  for  it.  It 
depends,  like  so  many  of  the  best  things,  chiefly  on 
memory  ;  but,  strangely  enough,  it  depends  quite  as 
much  on  proper  forgetting  as  on  proper  remem 
bering.  Worries  must  be  forgotten.  Troubles  must 
be  forgotten.  Yes,  even  sorrow  itself  must  be  denied 
and  shut  out.  Perhaps  this  is  not  'quite  possible. 
Ah !  we  all  have  seen  Christmas  days  on  which  sor 
row  would  not  leave  our  hearts  nor  our  houses. 
But  even  sorrow  can  be  compelled  to  look  away 
from  its  sorrowing  for  a  festival  hour  which  is  so 
solemnly  joyous  as  Christ's  Birthday.  Memory  can 
be  filled  full  of  other  things  to  be  remembered.  No 
soul  is  entirely  destitute  of  blessings,  absolutely 
without  comfort.  Perhaps  we  have  but  one.  Very 
well ;  we  can  think  steadily  of  that  one,  if  we  try. 
But  the  probability  is  that  we  have  more  than  we  can 
count.  No  man  has  yet  numbered  the  blessings,  the 
mercies,  the  joys  of  God.  We  are  all  richer  than  we 
think ;  and  if  we  once  set  ourselves  to  reckoning  up 
the  things  of  which  we  are  glad,  we  shall  be  astonished 
at  their  number. 

Gladness,  then,  is  the  first  item,  the  first  course  on 
our  bill  of  fare  for  a  Christmas  dinner. 


A  SIMPLE  BILL    OF  FARE.  181 

s.  —  LOVE  garnished  with  Smiles. 
GENTLENESS,  with  sweet-wine  sauce  of  Laugh tei. 

GRACIOUS  SPEECH,  cooked  with  any  fine,  savory 
herbs,  such  as  Drollery,  which  is  always  in  season,  or 
Pleasant  Reminiscence,  which  no  one  need  be  without, 
as  it  keeps  for  years,  sealed  or  unsealed. 

Second  Course.  —  HOSPITALITY. 

The  precise  form  of  this  also  depends  on  individual 
preferences.  We  are  not  undertaking  here  to  give 
exact  recipes,  only  a  bill  of  fare. 

In  some  houses  Hospitality  is  brought  on  sur 
rounded  with  Relatives.  This  is  very  well.  In 
others,  it  is  dished  up  with  Dignitaries  of  all  sorts  ; 
men  and  women  of  position  and  estate  for  whom  the 
host  has  special  likings  or  uses.  This  gives  a  fine 
effect  to  the  eye,  but  cools  quickly,  and  is  not  in  the 
long-run  satisfying. 

In  a  third  class,  best  of  all,  it  is  served  in  simple 
shapes,  but  with  a  great  variety  of  Unfortunate  Per 
sons,  —  such  as  lonely  people  from  lodging-houses, 
poor  people  of  all  grades,  widows  and  childless  in 
their  affliction.  This  is  the  'kind  most  preferred ;  in 
fact,  never  abandoned  by  those  who  have  tried  it. 

For  Dessert,  —  MIRTH,  in  glasses. 

GRATITUDE  and  FAITH  beaten  together  and  piled 
up  in  snowy  shapes.  These  will  look  light  if  run 
over  night  in  the  moulds  of  Solid  Trust  and  Patience. 


1 82  BITS  OF  TALK. 

A  dish  of  the  bonbons  Good  Cheer  and  Kindliness 
with  every-day  mottoes  ;  Knots  and  Reasons  in  shape 
of  Puzzles  and  Answers  ;  the  whole  ornamented  with 
Apples  of  Gold  in  Pictures  of  Silver,  of  the  kind  men 
tioned  in  the  Book  of  Proverbs. 

This  is  a  short  and  simple  bill  of  fare.  There  is  not 
a  costly  thing  in  it ;  not  a  thing  which  cannot  be  pro 
cured  without  difficulty. 

If  meat  is  desired,  it  can  be  added.  That  is  another 
excellence  about  our  bill  of  fare.  It  has  nothing  in  it 
which  makes  it  incongruous  with  the  richest  or  the 
plainest  tables.  It  is  not  overcrowded  by  the  addition 
of  roast  goose  and  plum-pudding ;  it  is  not  harmed  by 
the  addition  of  herring  and  potatoes.  Nay,  it  can  give 
flavor  and  richness  to  broken  bits  of  stale  bread  served 
on  a  doorstep  and  eaten  by  beggars. 

We  might  say  much  more  about  this  bill  of  fare.  We 
might,  perhaps,  confess  that  it  has  an  element  of  the 
supernatural ;  that  its  origin  is  lost  in  obscurity  ;  that, 
although,  as  we  said,  it  has  never  been  printed  before, 
it  has  been  known  in  all  ages  ;  that  the  martyrs  feasted 
upon  it ;  that  generations  of  the  poor,  called  blessed  by 
Christ,  have  laid  out  banquets  by  it ;  that  exiles  and 
prisoners  have  lived  on  it ;  and  the  despised  and  for 
saken  and  rejected  in  all  countries  have  tasted  it.  It 
is  also  true  that  when  any  great  king  ate  well  and 
throve  on  his  dinner,  it  was  by  the  same  magic  food. 
The  young  and  the  free  and  the  glad,  and  all  rich  men 
in  costly  houses,  even  they  have  not  been  well  fed  with 
out  it. 


A  SIMPLE  BILL   OF  FARE.  183 

And  though  we  have  called  it  a  Bill  of  Fare  for  a 
Christmas  Dinner,  that  is  only  that  men's  eyes  may 
be  caught  by  its  name,  and  that  they,  thinking  it  a 
specialty  for  festival,  may  learn  and  understand  its 
secret,  and  henceforth,  laying  all  their  dinners  accord 
ing  to  its  magic  order,  may  "  eat  unto  the  Lord." 


BITS  OF  TALK. 


CHILDREN'S   PARTIES. 

"  T^ROM  six  tiU  half-past  eleven." 

•*•        "  German  at  seven,  precisely." 

These  were  the  terms  of  an  invitation  which  we  saw 
last  week.  It  was  sent  to  forty  children,  between  the 
ages  of  ten  and  sixteen. 

"  Will  you  allow  your  children  to  stay  at  this  party 
until  half-past  eleven  ?  "  we  said  to  a  mother  whose 
children  were  invited.  "What  can  I  do  ?"  she  replied. 
"  If  I  send  the  carriage  for  them  at  half-past  ten,  the 
chances  are  that  they  will  not  be  allowed  to  come 
away.  It  is  impossible  to  break  up  a  set.  And  as  for 
that  matter,  half-past  ten  is  two  hours  and  a  half  past 
their  bed-time  ;  they  might  as  well  stay  an  hour  longer. 
I  wish  nobody  would  ever  ask  my  children  to  a  party. 
I  cannot  keep  them  at  home,  if  they  are  asked.  Of 
course,  I  might ;  but  I  have  not  the  moral  courage  to 
see  them  so  unhappy.  All  the  other  children  go  ;  and 
what  can  I  do  ?  " 

This  is  a  tender,  loving  mother,  whose  sweet,  gentle, 
natural  methods  with  her  children  have  made  them 
sweet,  gentle,  natural  little  girls,  whom  it  is  a  delight 
to  know.  But  "  what  can  she  do  ?  "  The  question  is 


CHILDREN'S  PARTIES.  1^5 

by  no  means  one  which  can  be  readily  answered.  It 
is  very  easy  for  off-hand  severity,  sweeping  condemna 
tion,  to  say,  "  Do  !  Why,  nothing  is  plainer.  Keep 
her  children  away  from  such  places.  Never  let  them 
go  to  any  parties  which  will  last  later  than  nine 
o'clock."  This  is  the  same  thing  as  saying,  "  Never 
let  them  go  to  parties  at  all."  There  are  no  parties 
which  break  up  at  nine  o'clock ;  that  is,  there  are  not 
in  our  cities.  We  hope  there  are  such  parties  still  in 
country  towns  and  villages,-rsuch  parties  as  we  remem 
ber  to  this  day  with  a  vividness  which  no  social  enjoy 
ments  since  then  have  dimmed;  Saturday-afternoon 
parties,  —  matinees  they  would  have  been  called  if  the 
village  people  had  known  enough  ;  parties  which  began 
at  three  in  the  afternoon  and  ended  in  the  early  dusk, 
while  little  ones  could  see  their  way  home  ;  parties  at 
which  there  was  no  "  German,"  only  the  simplest  of 
dancing,  if  any, 'and  much  more  of  blind-man's-buff ; 
parties  at  which  "mottoes  "'in  sugar  horns  were  the 
luxurious  novelty,  caraway  cookies  the  staple,  and 
lemonade  the  only  drink  besides  pure  water.  Fancy 
offering  to  the  creature  called  child  in  cities  to-day, 
lemonade  and  a  caraway  cooky  and  a  few  pink  sugar 
horns  and  some  walnuts  and  raisins  to  carry  home  in 
its  pocket !  One  blushes  at  thought  of  the  scornful 
contempt  with  which  such  simples  would  be  received, 
—  we  mean  rejected  ! 

From  the  party  whose  invitation  we  have  quoted 
above  the  little  girls  came  home  at  midnight,  radiant, 
flushed,  joyous,  looking  in  their  floating  white  muslin 


1 86  BITS  OF  TALK. 

dresses  like  fairies,  their  hands  loaded  with  bouquets 
of  hot-house  flowers  and  dainty  little  "  favors  "  from 
the  German.  At  eleven  they  had  had  for  supper  cham 
pagne  and  chicken  salad,  and  all  the  other  unwhole 
some  abominations  which  are  set  out  and  eaten  in 
American  evening  entertainments. 

Next  morning  there  were  no  languid  eyes,  pale 
cheeks.  Each  little  face  was  eager,  bright,  rosy, 
though  the  excited  brain  had  had  only  five  or  six  hours 
of  sleep. 

"If  they  only  would  feel  tired  the  next  day,  that 
would  be  something  of  an  argument  to  bring  up  with 
them,"  said  the  poor  mother.  "  But  they  always  de 
clare  that  they  feel  better  than  ever." 

And  so  they  do.  But  the  "  better  "  is  only  a  deceit 
ful  sham,  kept  up  by  excited  and  overwrought  nerves,  — 
the  same  thing  that  we  see  over  and  over  and  over 
again  in  all  lives  which  are  temporarily  kindled  and 
stimulated  by  excitement  of  any  kind. 

This  is  the  worst  thing,  this  is  the  most  fatal  thing 
in  all  our  mismanagements  and  perversions  of  the 
physical  life  of  our  children.  Their  beautiful  elasticity 
and  strength  rebound  instantly  to  an  apparently  unin 
jured  fulness  ;  and  so  we  go  on,  undermining,  under 
mining  at  point  after  point,  until  suddenly  some  day 
tnere  comes  a  tragedy,  a  catastrophe,  for  which  we  are 
as  unprepared  as  if  we  had  been  working  to  avert, 
instead  of  to  hasten  it.  Who  shall  say  when  our  boys 
die  at  eighteen,  twenty,  twenty-two,  our  girls  either  in 
their  girlhood  or  in  the  first  strain  of  their  woman- 


CHILDREN'S  PARTIES.  187 

hood,  —  who  shall  say  that  they  might  not  have  passed 
safely  through  the  dangers,  had  no  vital  force  been 
unnecessarily  wasted  in  their  childhood,  their  infancy  ? 

Every  hour  that  a  child  sleeps  is  just  so  much  in 
vestment  of  physical  capital  for  years  to  come.  Every 
hour  after  dark  that  a  child  is  awake  is  just  so  much 
capital  withdrawn.  Every  hour  that  a  child  lives  a  quiet, 
tranquil,  joyous  life  of  such  sort  as  kittens  live  on 
hearths,  squirrels  in  sunshine,  is  just  so  much  invest 
ment  in  strength  and  steadiness  and  growth  of  the 
nervous  system.  Every  hour  that  a  child  lives  a  life  of 
excited  brain-working,  either  in  a  school-room  or  in  a 
ball-room,  is  just  so  much  taken  away  from  the  reserved 
force  which  enables  nerves  to  triumph  through  the  sor 
rows,  through  the  labors,  through  the  diseases  of  later 
life.  Every  mouthful  of  wholesome  food  that  a  child 
eats,  at  seasonable  hours,  may  be  said  to  tell  on  every 
moment  of  his  whole  life,  no  matter  how  long  it  may 
be.  Victor  Hugo,  the  benevolent  exile,  has  found  out 
that  to  be  well  fed  once  in  seven  days  at  one  meal  has 
been  enough  to  transform  the  apparent  health  of  all  the 
poor  children  in  Guernsey.  Who  shall  say  that  to 
take  once  in  seven  days,  or  even  once  in  thirty  days, 
an  unwholesome  supper  of  chicken  salad  and  cham 
pagne  may  not  leave  as  lasting  effects  on  the  constitu 
tion  of  a  child  ? 

If  Nature  would  only  "execute"  her  "sentences 
against  evil  works  "  more  "  speedily,"  evil  works  would 
not  so  thrive.  The  law  of  continuity  is  the  hardest 
one  for  average  men  and  women  to  comprehend,  —  or, 


1 88  BITS  OF  TALK. 

at  any  rate,  to  obey.  Seed-time  and  harvest  in  gardens 
and  fields  they  have  learned  to  understand  and  profit 
by.  When  we  learn,  also,  that  in  the  precious  lives  of 
these  little  ones  we  cannot  reap  what  we  do  not  sow, 
and  we  must  reap  all  which  we  do  sow,  and  that  the 
emptiness  or  the  richness  of  the  harvest  is  not  so 
much  for  us  as  for  them,  one  of  the  first  among  the 
many  things  which  we  shall  reform  will  be  "  children's 
parties." 


AFTER-SUPPER  TALK.  189 


AFTER-SUPPER  TALK. 

«c  \  FTER-DINNER  talk7  has  been  thought  of 
•^•^  great  importance.  The  expression  has  passed 
into  literature^with  many  records  of  the  good  sayings 
it  included.  Kings  and  ministers  condescend  to 
make  efforts  at  it ;  poets  and  philosophers  — greater 
than  kings  and  ministers  —  do  not  disdain  to  attempt 
to  shine  in  it. 

But  nobody  has  yet  shown  what  "  after-supper  talk  " 
ought  to  be.  We  are  not  speaking  now  of  the  formal 
entertainment  known  as  "  a  supper ; "  we  mean  the 
every-day  evening  meal  in  the  every-day  home,  —  the 
meal  known  heartily  and  commonly  as  "  supper," 
among  people  who  are  neither  so  fashionable  nor  so 
foolish  as  to  take  still  a  fourth  meal  at  hours  when 
they  ought  to  be  asleep  in  bed. 

This  ought  to  be  the  sweetest  and  most  precious 
hour  of  the  day.  It  is  too  often  neglected  and  lost  in 
families.  It  ought  to  be  the  mother's  hour ;  the 
mother's  opportunity  to  undo  any  mischief  the  clay 
may  have  done,  to  forestall  any  mischief  the  morrow 
may  threaten.  There  is  an  instinctive  disposition  in 
most  families  to  linger  about  the  supper-table,  quite 
unlike  the  eager  haste  which  is  seen  at  breakfast  and 


190  BITS   OF  TALK. 

at  dinner.  Work  is  over  for  the  day ;  everybody  is 
tired,  even  the  little  ones  who  have  done  nothing  but 
play.  The  father  is  ready  for  slippers  and  a  comforta 
ble  chair  ;  the  children  are  ready  and  eager  to  recount 
the  incidents  of  the  day.  This  is  the  time  when  all 
should  be  cheered,  rested,  and  also  stimulated  by  just 
the  right  sort  of  conversation,  just  the  right  sort  of 
amusement. 

The  wife  and  mother  must  supply  this  need,  must 
create  this  atmosphere.  We  do  not  mean  that  the 
father  does  not  share  the  responsibility  of  this,  as  of 
every  other  hour.  But  this  particular  duty  is  one 
requiring  qualities  which  are  more  essentially  feminine 
than  masculine.  It  wants  a  light  touch  and  an  under- 
tone  to  bring  out  the  full  harmony  of  the  ideal  home 
evening.  It  must  not  be  a  bore.  It  must  not  be 
empty ;  it  must  not  be  too  much  like  preaching ;  it 
must  not  be  wholly  like  play  ;  more  than  all  things, 
it  must  not  be  always  —  no,  not  if  it  could  be  helped, 
not  even  twice  — the  same  !  It  must  be  that  most  inde 
finable,  most  recognizable  thing,  "  a  good  time."  Bless 
the  children  for  inventing  the  phrase  !  It  has,  like  all 
their  phrases,  an  unconscious  touch  of  sacred  inspira 
tion  in  it,  in  the  selection  of  the  good  word  "good," 
which  lays  peculiar  benediction  on  all  things  to  which 
it  is  set. 

If  there  were  no  other  reason  against  children's  hav 
ing  lessons  assigned  them  to  study  at  home,  we  should 
consider  this  a  sufficient  one,  that  it  robs  them  of  the 
after-supper  hour  with  their  parents.  Even  if  their 


AFTER-SUPPER   TALK.  191 

brains  could  bear  without  injury  the  sixth,  seventh,  or 
eighth  hour,  as  it  may  be,  of  study,  their  hearts  cannot 
bear  the  being  starved. 

In  the  average  family,  this  is  the  one  only  hour  of 
the  day  when  father,  mother,  and  children  can  be 
together,  free  of  cares  and  unhurried.  Even  to  the 
poorest  laborer's  family  comes  now  something  like 
peace  and  rest  forerunning  the  intermission  of  the 
night. 

Everybody  who  has  any  artistic  sense  recognizes 
this  instinctively  when  they  see  through  the  open  doors 
of  humble  houses  the  father  and  mother  and  children 
gathered  around  their  simple  supper.  Its  mention  has 
already  passed  into  triteness  in  verse,  so  inevitably 
have  poets  felt  the  sacred  charm  of  the  hour. 

Perhaps  there  is  something  deeper  than  on  first 
thoughts  would  appear  in  the  instant  sense  of  pleasure 
one  has  in  this  sight ;  also,  in  the  universal  feeling 
that  the  evening  gathering  of  the  family  is  the  most 
sacred  one.  Perhaps  there  is  unconscious  recognition 
that  dangers  are  near  at  hand  when  night  falls,  and 
that  in  this  hour  lies,  or  should  lie,  the  spell  to  drive 
them  all  away. 

There  is  something  almost  terrible  in  the  mingling 
of  danger  and  protection,  of  harm  and  help,  of  good 
and  bad,  in  that  one  thing,  darkness.  God  "  giveth 
his  beloved  sleep  "  in  it ;  and  in  it  the  devil  sets  his 
worst  lures,  by  help  of  it  gaining  many  a  soul  which 
he  could  never  get  possession  of  in  sunlight. 

Mothers,  fathers  !  cultivate  "  after-supper  talk ;"  play 


I92  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"after-supper  games;"  keep  "after- supper  books;" 
lake  all  the  good  newspapers  and  magazines  you  can 
afford,  and  read  them  aloud  "after  supper."  Let 
boys  and  girls  bring  their  friends  home  with  them 
at  twilight,  sure  of  a  pleasant  and  hospitable  wel 
come  and  of  a  good  time  "  after  supper,"  and  parents 
may  laugh  to  scorn  all  the  temptations  which,  town  or 
village  can  set  before  them  to  draw  them  away  from 
home  for  their  evenings. 

These  are  but  hasty  hints,  bare  suggestions.  But 
if  they  rouse  one  heart  to  a  new  realization  of  what 
evenings  at  home  ought  to  be,  and  what  evenings  at 
home  too  often  are,  they  have  not  been  spoken  in  vain 
nor  out  of  season. 


HYSTERIA  IN  LITERATURE.  193 


HYSTERIA  IN  LITERATURE. 

1DHYSICIANS  tell  us  that  there  is  no  known  dis- 
•*•  ease,  no  known  symptom  of  disease,  which  hys 
teria  cannot  and  does  not  counterfeit.  Most  skilful 
surgeons  are  misled  by  its  cunning  into  believing  and 
pronouncing  able-bodied  young  women  to  be  victims 
of  s  inal  disease,  "stricture  of  the  oesophagus,"  "gas- 
trodynia,"  "paraplegia,"  " hemiplegia,"  and  hundreds 
of  other  affections,  with  longer  or  shorter  names. 
Families  are  thrown  into  disorder  and  distress* ;  friends 
suffer  untold  pains  of  anxiety  and  sympathy  ;  doctors 
are  summoned  from  far  and  near ;  and  all  this  while 
the  vertebra,  or  the  membrane,  or  the  muscle,  as  it 
may  be,  which  is  so  honestly  believed  to  be  diseased, 
and  which  shows  every  symptom  of  diseased  action 
or  inaction,  is  sound  and  strong,  and  as  well  able  as 
ever  it  was  to  perform  its  function. 

The  common  symptoms  of  hysteria  everybody  is 
familiar  with,  —  the  crying  and  laughing  in  inappro 
priate  places,  the  fancied  impossibility  of  breathing, 
and  so  forth,  —  which  make  such  trouble  and  mortifi 
cation  for  the  embarrassed  companions  of  hysterical 
persons  ;  and  which,  moreover,  can  be  very  easily  sup- 
13 


194  BITS  OF  TALK. 

pressed  by  a  little  wholesome  severity,  accompanied 
by  judicious  threats  or  sudden  use  of  cold  water.  But 
few  people  know  or  suspect  the  number  of  diseases 
and  conditions,  supposed  to  be  real,  serious,  often  in 
curable,  which  are  simply  and  solely,  or  in  a  great 
part,  undetected  hysteria.  This  very  ignorance  on 
the  part  of  friends  and  relatives  makes  it  almost  im 
possible  for  surgeons  and  physicians  to  treat  such 
cases  properly.  The  probabilities  are,  in  nine  cases 
out  of  ten,  that  the  indignant  family  will  dismiss,  as 
ignorant  or  hard-hearted,  any  practitioner  who  tells 
them  the  unvarnished  truth,  and  proposes  to  treat  the 
sufferer  in  accordance  with  it. 

In  the  field  of  literature  we  find  a  hysteria  as  wide 
spread,  as  undetected,  as  unmanageable  as  the  hysteria 
which  skulks  and  conquers  in  the  field  of  disease. 

Its  commoner  outbreaks  everybody  knows  by  sight 
and  sound,  and  everybody  except  the  miserably  igno 
rant  and  silly  despises.  Yet  there  are  to  be  found  cir 
cles  which  thrill  and  weep  in  sympathetic  unison  with 
the  ridiculous  joys  and  sorrows,  grotesque  sentiments, 
and  preposterous  adventures  of  the  heroes  and  hero 
ines  of  the  "  Dime  Novels  "  and  novelettes,  and  the 
"  Flags  "  and  "  Blades  "  and  "  Gazettes  "  among  the 
lowest  newspapers.  But  in  well-regulated  and  intelli 
gent  households,  this  sort  of  writing  is  not  tolerated, 
any  more  than  the  correlative  sort  of  physical  phe 
nomenon  would  be,  —  the  gasping,  shrieking,  sobbing, 
giggling  kind  of  behavior  in  a  man  or  woman. 

But  there  is  another  and  more  dangerous  working  of 


HYSTERIA  IN  LITERATURE.  195 

the  same  thing ;  deep,  unsuspected,  clothing  itself 
with  symptoms  of  the  most  defiant  genuineness,  it 
lurks  and  does  its  business  in  every  known  field  of 
composition.  Men  and  women  are  alike  prone  to  it, 
though  its  shape  is  somewhat  affected  by  sex. 

Among  men  it  breaks  out  often,  perhaps  oftenest,  in 
violent  illusions  on  the  subject  of  love.  They  assert, 
declare,  shout,  sing,  scream  that  they  love,  hav^e  loved, 
are  loved,  do  and  for  ever  will  love,  after  methods  and 
in  manners  which  no  decent  love  ever  thought  of  men 
tioning.  And  yet,  so  does  their  weak  violence  ape  the 
bearing  of  strength,  so  much  does  their  cheat  look  like 
truth,  that  scores,  nay,  shoals  of  human  beings  go 
about  repeating  and  echoing  their  noise,  and  saying, 
gratefully,  "  Yes,  this  is  love ;  this  is,  indeed,  what 
all  true  lovers  must  know." 

These  are  they  who  proclaim  names  of  beloved  on 
house-tops  ;  who  strip  off  veils  from  sacred  secrets 
and  secret  sacrednesses,  and  set  them  up  naked  for  the 
multitude  to  weigh  and  compare.  What  punishment 
is  for  such  beloved,  Love  himself  only  knows.  It  must 
be  in  store  for  them  somewhere.  Dimly  one  can  sus 
pect  what  it  might  be ;  but  "it  will  be  like  all  Love's 
true  secrets, — secret  for  ever. 

These  men  of  hysteria  also  take  up  specialties  of 
art  or  science  ;  and  in  their  behoof  rant,  and  exagger 
ate,  and  fabricate,  and  twist,  and  lie  in  such  stentorian 
voices  that  reasonable  people  are  deafened  and  bewil 
dered. 

They  also  tell  common  tales  in  such    enormous 


igb  BITS  OF  TALK. 

phrases,  with  such  gigantic  structure  of  rhetorical 
flourish,  that  the  mere  disproportion  amounts  to  false 
hood  ;  and,  the  diseased  appetite  in  listeners  growing 
more  and  more  diseased,  feeding  on  such  diseased 
food,  it  is  impossible  to  predict  what  it  will  not  be 
necessary  for  story-mongers  to  invent  at  the  end  of  a 
century  or  so  more  of  this. 

But  the  worst  manifestations  of  this  disease  are 
found  in  so-called  religious  writing.  Theology,  biog 
raphy,  especially  autobiography,  didactic  essays,  tales 
with  a  moral,  —  under  every  one  of  these  titles  it  lifts 
up  its  hateful  head.  It  takes  so  successfully  the  guise 
of  genuine  religious  emotion,  religious  experience, 
religious  zeal,  that  good  people  on  all  hands  weep 
grateful  tears  as  they  read  its  morbid  and  unwhole 
some  utterances.  Of  these  are  many  of  the  long  and 
short  stories  setting  forth  in  melodramatic  pictures 
exceptionally  good  or  exceptionally  bad  children ;  or 
exceptionally  pathetic  and  romantic  careers  of  sweet 
and  refined  Magdalens  ;  minute  and  prolonged  dissec 
tions  of  the  processes  of  spiritual  growth ;  equally 
minute  and  authoritative  formulas  for  spiritual  exer 
cises  of  all  sorts,  —  "manuals  of  drill,"  so  to  speak, 
or  "field  tactics"  for  souls.  Of  these  sorts  of  books, 
the  good  and  the  bad  are  almost  indistinguishable  from 
each  other,  except  by  the  carefulest  attention  and  the 
finest  insight ;  overwrought,  unnatural  atmosphere  and 
meaningless,  shallow  routine  so  nearly  counterfeit  the 
sound  and  shape  of  warm,  true  enthusiasm  and  wise 
precepts. 


HYSTERIA  IN  LITERATURE.  197 

Where  may  be  the  remedy  for  this  widespread  and 
widely  spreading  disease  among  writers  we  do  not 
know.  It  is  not  easy  to  keep  up  courageous  faith  that 
there  is  any  remedy.  Still,  Nature  abhors  noise  and 
haste,  and  shams  of  all  sorts  :  quiet  and  patience  are 
the  great  secrets  of  her  force,  whether  it  be  a  moun 
tain  or  a  soul  that  she  would  fashion.  We  must  be 
lieve  that  sooner  or  later  there  will  come  a  time  in 
which  silence  shall  have  its  dues,  moderation  be 
crowned  king  of  speech,  and  melodramatic,  spectacu 
lar,  hysterical  language  be  considered  as  disreputable 
as  it  is  silly.  But  the  most  discouraging  feature  of 
the  disease  is  its  extreme  contagiousness.  All  physi 
cians  know  what  a  disastrous  effect  one  hysterical 
patient  will  produce  upon  a  whole  ward  in  a  hospital. 
We  remember  hearing  a  young  physician  once  give  a 
most  amusing  account  of  a  woman  who  was  taken  to 
Bellevue  Hospital  for  a  hysterical  cough.  Her  lungs, 
bronchia,  throat,  were  all  in  perfect  condition  ;  but  she 
coughed  almost  incessantly,  especially  on  the  approach 
of  the  hour  for  the  doctor's  visit  to  the  ward.  In  less 
than  one  week  half  the  women  in  the  ward  had  similar 
coughs.  A  single  —  though  it  must  be  confessed  rather 
terrific  —  application  of  cold  water  to  the  original  of 
fender  worked  a  simultaneous  cure  upon  her  and  all 
of  her  imitators. 

Not  long  ago  a  very  parallel  thing  was  to  be  observed 
in  the  field  of  story- writing.  A  clever,  though  morbid 
and  melodramatic  writer  published  a  novel,  whose 
heroine,  having  once  been  an  inmate  of  a  house  of  ill- 


198  BITS  OF  TALK. 

fame,  escaped,  and,  finding  shelter  and  Christian  train 
ing  in  the  home  of  a  benevolent  woman,  became  a 
model  of  womanly  delicacy,  and  led  a  life  of  exquisite 
and  artistic  refinement.  As  to  the  animus  and  intent 
of  this  story  there  could  be  no  doubt ;  both  were  good, 
but  in  atmosphere  and  execution  it  was  essentially 
unreal,  overwrought,  and  melodramatic.  For  three  or 
four  months  after  its  publication  there  was  a  perfect 
outburst  and  overflow  in  newspapers  and  magazines 
of  the  lower  order  of  stories,  all  more  or  less  bad,  some 
simply  outrageous,  and  all  treating,  or  rather  pretend 
ing  to  treat,  the  same  problem  which  had  furnished 
theme  for  that  novel. 

Probably  a  close  observation  and  collecting  of  the 
dreary  statistics  would  bring  to  light  a  curious  proof  of 
the  extent  and  certainty  of  this  sort  of  contagion. 

Reflecting  on  it,  having  it  thrust  in  one's  face  at 
every  book-counter,  railway-stand,  Sunday-school  li 
brary,  and  parlor  centre-table,  it  is  hard  not  to  wish  for 
some  supernatural  authority  to  come  sweeping  through 
the  wards,  and  prescribe  sharp  cold-water  treatment 
all  around  to  half  drown  all  such  writers  and  quite 
drown  all  their  books  ! 


JOG  TROT.  199 


JOG    TROT. 

'T^HERE    is    etymological    uncertainty  about    the 
-*•      phrase.     But  there  is  no  doubt  about  its  mean 
ing  ;  no  doubt  that  it  represents  a  good,  comfortable 
gait,  at  which  nobody  goes  nowadays. 

A  hundred  years  ago  it  was  the  fashion  :  in  the  days 
when  railroads  were  not,  nor  telegraphs  ;  when  citizens 
journeyed  in  stages,  putting  up  prayers  in  church  if 
their  journey  were  to  be  so  long  as  from  Massachusetts 
into  'Connecticut ;  when  evil  news  travelled  slowly  by 
letter,  and  good  news  was  carried  about  by  men  on 
horses  ;  when  maidens  spun  and  wove  for  long,  quiet, 
silent  years  at  their  wedding  trousseaux,  and  mothers 
spun  and  wove  all  which  sons  and  husbands  wore ; 
when  newspapers  were  small  and  infrequent,  dingy- 
typed  and  wholesomely  stupid,  so  that  no  man  could 
or  would  learn  from  them  more  about  other  men's 
opinions,  affairs,  or  occupations  than  it  concerned  his 
practical  convenience  to  know ;  when  even  wars  were 
waged  at  slow  pace,  —  armies  sailing  great  distances 
by  chance  winds,  or  plodding  on  foot  for  thousands  of 
miles,  and  fighting  doggedly  hand  to  hand  at  sight ; 
when  fortunes  also  were  slowly  made  by  simple,  honest 


200  BITS  OF  TALK. 

growths, — no  men  excepting  freebooters  and  pirates 
becoming  rich  in  a  day. 

It  would  seem  treason  or  idiocy  to  sigh  for  these  old 
days,  —  treason  to  ideas  of  progress,  stupid  idiocy 
unaware  that  it  is  well  off.  Is  not  to-day  brilliant,  mar 
vellous,  beautiful  ?  Has  not  living  become  subject  to 
a  magician's  "presto"?  Are  we  not  decked  in  the 
whole  of  color,  feasted  on  all  that  shape  and  sound  and 
flavor  can  give  ?  Are  we  not  wiser  each  moment  than 
we  were  the  moment  before  ?  Do  not  the  blind  see,  the 
deaf  hear,  and  the  crippled  dance  ?  Has  not  Nature 
surrendered  to  us  ?  Art  and  science,  are  they  not  our 
slaves,  —  coining  money  and  running  mills?  Have 
we  not  built  and  multiplied  religions,  till  each  man, 
even  the  most  irreligious,  can  have  his  own  ?  Is  not 
what  is  called  the  "movement  of  the  age"  going  on  at 
the  highest  rate  of  speed  and  of  sound?  Shall  we 
complain  that  we  are  maddened  by  the  racket,  out  of 
breath  with  the  spinning  and  whirling,  and  dying  of  the 
strain  of  it  all  ?  What  is  a  man,  more  or  less  ?  What 
are  one  hundred  and  twenty  millions  of  men,  more  or 
less  ?  What  is  quiet  in  comparison  with  riches  ?  or 
digestion  and  long  life  in  comparison  with  knowledge  ? 
When  we  are  added  up  in  the  universal  reckoning  of 
races,  there  will  be  small  mention  of  individuals.  Let 
us  be  disinterested.  Let  us  sacrifice  ourselves,  and, 
above  all,  our  children,  to  raise  the  general  average  of 
human  invention  and  attainment  J;o  the  highest  possi 
ble  mark.  To  be  sure,  we  are  working  in  the  dark. 
We  do  not  know,  not  even  if  we  are  Huxley,  do  we 


JOG   TROT.  201 

know,  at  what  point  in  the  grand,  universal  scale  we 
shall  ultimately  come  in.  We  know,  or  think  we  know, 
about  how  far  below  us  stand  the  gorilla  and  the  seal. 
We  patronize  them  kindly  for  learning  to  turn  hand- 
organs  or  eat  from  porringers.  Let  us  hope  that,  if 
we  have  brethren  of  higher  races  on  other  planets, 
they  will  be  as  generously  appreciative  of  our  little  all 
when  we  have  done  it ;  but,  meanwhile,  let  us  never 
be  deterred  from  our  utmost  endeavor  by  any  base  and 
envious  misgivings  that  possibly  we  may  not  be  the 
last  and  highest  work  of  the  Creator,  and  in  a  fair  way 
to  reach  very  soon  the  final  climax  of  all  which  created 
intelligences  can  be  or  become.  Let  us  make  the  best 
of  dyspepsia,  paralysis,  insanity,  and  the  death  of  our 
children.  Perhaps  we  can  do  as  much  in  forty  years, 
working  night  and  day,  as  we  could  in  seventy,  work 
ing  only  by  day ;  and  the  five  out  of  twelve  children 
that  live  to  grow  up  can  perpetuate  the  names  and  the 
methods  of  their  fathers.  It  is  a  comfort  to  believe, 
as  we  are  told,  that  the  world  can  never  lose  an  iota 
that  it  has  gained ;  that  progress  is  the  great  law  of 
the  universe.  It  is  consoling  to  verify  this  truth  by 
looking  backward,  and  seeing  how  each  age  has 
made  use  of  the  wrecks  of  the  preceding  one  as  mate 
rial  for  new  structures  on  different  plans.  What  are 
we  that  we  should  mention  our  preference  for  being 
put  to  some  other  use,  more  immediately  remunerative 
to  ourselves  ! 

We  must  be  all  wrong  if  we  are  not  in  sympathy 
with  the  age  in  which  we  live.     We  might  as  well  be 


202  BITS  OF  TALK. 

dead  as  not  keep  up  with  it.  But  which  of  us  does  not 
sometimes  wish  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  that  he  had  been 
born  long  enough  ago  to  have  been  boon  companion 
of  his  great-grandfather,  and  have  gone  respectably 
and  in  due  season  to  his  grave  at  a  good  jog  trot  ? 


THE  JOYLESS  AMERICAN.  203 


THE  JOYLESS   AMERICAN. 

TT  is  easy  to  fancy  that  a  European,  on  first  reaching 
•*•  these  shores,  might  suppose  that  he  had  chanced 
to  arrive  upon  a  day  when  some  great  public  calamity 
had  saddened  the  heart  of  the  nation.  It  would  be 
quite  safe  to  assume  that  out  of  the  first  five  hundred 
faces  which  he  sees  there  will  not  be  ten  wearing  a 
smile,  and  not  fifty,  all  told,  looking  as  if  they  ever 
could  smile.  If  this  statement  sounds  extravagant  to 
-iny  man,  let  him  try  the  experiment,  for  one  week,  of 
noting  down,  in  his  walks  about  town,  every  face  he 
sees  which  has  a  radiantly  cheerful  expression.  The 
chances  are  that  at  the  end  of  his  seven  days  he  will 
not  have  entered  seven  faces  in  his  note-book  without 
being  aware  at  the  moment  of  some  conscientious  diffi 
culty  in  permitting  himself  to  call  them  positively  and 
unmistakably  cheerful. 

The  truth  is,  this  wretched  and  joyless  expression 
on  the  American  face  is  so  common  that  we  are  hard 
ened  to  seeing  it,  and  look  for  nothing  better.  Only 
when  by  chance  some  blessed,  rollicking,  sunshiny  boy 
or  girl  or  man  or  woman  flashes  the  beam  of  a  laugh 
ing  countenance  into  the  level  gloom  do  we  even 


204  BITS  OF  TALK. 

know  that  we  are  in  the  dark.  Witness  the  instant 
effect  of  the  entrance  of  such  a  person  into  an  omnibus 
or  a  car.  Who  has  not  observed  it  ?  Even  the  most 
stolid  and  apathetic  soul  relaxes  a  little.  The  uncon 
scious  intruder,  simply  by  smiling,  has  set  the  blood 
moving  more  quickly  in  the  veins  of  every  human  being 
who  sees  him.  He  is,  for  the  moment,  the  personal 
benefactor  of  every  one  ;  if  he  had  handed  about  money 
or  bread,  it  would  have  been  a  philanthropy  of  less 
value. 

What  is  to  be  done  to  prevent  this  acrid  look  of 
misery  from  becoming  an  organic  characteristic  of  our 
people  ?  "  Make  them  play  more,"  says  one  philoso 
phy.  No  doubt  they  need  to  "  play  more  ;  "  but,  when 
one  looks  at  the  average  expression  of  a  Fourth  of 
July  crowd,  one  doubts  if  ever  so  much  multiplication 
of  that  kind  of  holiday  would  mend  the  matter.  No 
doubt  we  work  for  too  many  days  in  the  year,  and  play 
for  too  few ;  but,  after  all,  it  is  the  heart  and  the  spirit 
and  the  expression  that  we  bring  to  our  work,  and  not 
those  that  we  bring  to  our  play,  by  which  our  real 
vitality  must  be  tested  and  by  which  our  faces  will  be 
stamped.  If  we  do  not  work  healthfully,  reasoningly, 
moderately,  thankfully,  joyously,  we  shall  have  neither 
moderation  nor  gratitude  nor  joy  in  our  play.  And 
here  is  the  hopelessness,  here  is  the  root  of  the  trouble, 
of  the  joyless  American  face.  The  worst  of  all  demons, 
the  demon  of  unrest  and  overwork,  broods  in  the  very 
sky  of  this  land.  Blue  and  clear  and  crisp  and  spar 
kling  as  our  atmosphere  is,  it  cannot  or  does  not  exor- 


THE  JOYLESS  AMERICAN.  205 

cise  the  spell.  Any  old  man  can  count  on  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  the  persons  he  has  known  who  led  lives 
of  serene,  unhurried  content,  made  for  themselves 
occupations  and  not  tasks,  and  died  at  last  wh^t  might 
be  called  natural  deaths. 

"  What,  then  ?  "  says  the  congressional  candidate  from 
Meddibemps ;  the  "new  contributor"  to  the  oceanic 
magazine ;  Mrs.  Potiphar,  from  behind  her  liveries  ; 
and  poor  Dives,  senior,  from  Wall  Street ;  "  Are  we  to 
give  up  all  ambition  ? "  God  forbid.  But,  because  one 
has  a  goal,  must  one  be  torn  by  poisoned  spurs  ?  We 
see  on  the  Corso,  in  the  days  of  the  Carnival,  what 
speed  can  be  made  by  horses  under  torture.  Shall  we 
try  those  methods  and  that  pace  on  our  journeys  ? 

So  long  as  the  American  is  resolved  to  do  in  one  day 
the  work  of  two,  to  make  in  one  year  the  fortune  of 
his  whole  life  and  his  children's,  to  earn  before  he  is 
forty  the  reputation  which  belongs  to  threescore  and 
ten,  so  long  he  will  go  about  the  streets  wearing  his 
present  abject,  pitiable,  overwrought,  joyless  look.  But, 
even  without  a  change  of  heart  or  a  reform  of  habits, 
he  might  better  his  countenance  a  little,  if  he  would. 
Even  if  he  does  not  feel  like  smiling,  he  might  smile, 
if  he  tried  ;  and  that  would  be  something.  The  muscles 
are  all  there  ;  they  count  the  same  in  the  American  as 
in  the  French  or  the  Irish  face  ;  they  relax  easily  in 
youth  ;  the  trick  can  be  learned.  And  even  a  trick  of 
it  is  better  than  none  of  it.  Laughing  masters  might 
oe  as  well  paid  as  dancing  masters  to  help  on  society ! 
"  Smiling  made  Easy  "  or  the  "  Complete  Art  of  Look- 


206  BITS  OF  TALK. 

ing  Good-natured  "  would  be  as  taking  titles  on  book 
sellers'  shelves  as  "  The  Complete  Letter-writer  "  or 
"  Handbook  of  Behavior."  And  nobody  can  calculate 
what  might  be  the  moral  and  spiritual  results  if  it  could 
only  become  the  fashion  to  pursue  this  branch  of  the 
fine  arts.  Surliness  of  heart  must  melt  a  little  under 
the  simple  effort  to  smile.  A  man  will  inevitably  be 
?  little  less  of  a  bear  for  trying  to  wear  the  face  of 
a  Christian. 

"  He  who  laughs  can  commit  no  deadly  sin,"  said  the 
wise  and  sweet-hearted  woman  who  was  mother  of 
Goethe. 


SPIRITUAL  TEETHING.  2Of 


SPIRITUAL    TEETHING 

"IV  T ILK  for  babes ;  but,  when  they  come  to  the  age 
-*-*-*•  for  meat  of  doctrine,  teeth  must  be  cut.  It  is 
harder  work  for  souls  than  for  bodies  ;  but  the  pro 
cesses  are  wonderfully  parallel,  —  the  results  too,  alas  ! 
If  clergymen  knew  the  symptoms  of  spiritual  disease 
and  death,  as  well  as  doctors  do  of  disease  and  death 
of  the  flesh,  and  if  the  lists  were  published  at  end  of 
each  year  and  month  and  week,  what  a  record  would 
be  shown  !  "  Mortality  in  Brooklyn,  or  New  York,  or 
Philadelphia  for  the  week  ending  July  7th."  We  are 
so  used  to  the  curt  heading  of  the  little  paragraph  that 
our  eye  glances  idly  away  from  it,  and  we  do  not  realize 
its  sadness.  By  tens  and  by  scores  they  have  gone,  — 
the  men,  the  women,  the  babies  ;  in  hundreds  new 
mourners  are  going  about  the  streets,  week  by  week. 
We  are  as  familiar  with  black  as  with  scarlet,  with  the 
Jiearse  as  with  the  pleasure-carriage  ;  and  yet  "  so  dies 
in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death  "  that  we  can  be 
merry. 

But,  if  we  knew  as  well  the  record  of  sick  and  dying 
and  dead  souls,  our  hearts  would  break.  The  air  would 
be  dark  and  stifling.  We  should  be  afraid  to  move, 


208  BITS  OF  TALK. 

lest  we  might  hasten  the  last  hour  of  some  neighbor's 
spiritual  breath.  Ah,  how  often  have  we  unconsciously 
spoken  the  one  word  which  was  poison  to  his  fever ! 

Of  the  spiritual  deaths,  as  of  the  physical,  more  than 
half  take  place  in  the  period  of  teething.  The  more 
one  thinks  of  the  parallelism,  the  closer  it  looks,  until 
the  likeness  seems  as  droll  as  dismal.  Oh,  the  sweet, 
unquestioning  infancy  which  takes  its  food  from  the 
nearest  breast ;  which  knows  but  three  things,  —  hun 
ger  and  food  and  sleep  !  There  is  only  a  little  space 
for  this  delight.  In  our  seventh  month  we  begin  to 
be  wretched.  We  drink  our  milk,  but  we  are  aware 
of  a  constant  desire  to  bite  ;  doubts  which  we  do  not 
know  by  name,  needs  for  which  there  is  no  ready 
supply,  make  us  restless.  Now  comes  the  old-school 
doctor,  and  thrusts  in  his  lancet  too  soon.  We  suffer, 
we  bleed  ;  we  are  supposed  to  be  relieved.  The. tooth 
is  said  to  be  "  through." 

Through  !  Oh,  yes ;  through  before  its  time.  Through 
to  no  purpose.  In  a  week,  or  a  year,  the  wounded  flesh, 
or  soul,  has  reasserted  its  right,  shut  down  on  the 
tooth,  making  a  harder  surface  than  ever,  a  cicatrized 
crust,  out  of  which  it  will  take  double  time  and  double 
strength  for  the  tooth  to  break. 

The  gentle  doctor  gives  us  a  rubber  ring,  it  has  a 
bad  taste  ;  or  an  ivory  one,  it  is  too  hard  and  hurts  us. 
But  we  gnaw  and  gnaw,  and  fancy  the  new  pain  a  little 
easier  to  bear  than  the  old.  Probably  it  is  ;  probably 
the  tooth  gets  through  a  little  quicker  for  the  days  and 
nights  of  gnawing.  But  what  a  picture  of  patient  mis 
ery  is  a  baby  with  its  rubber  ring  !  Really  one  sees 


SPIRITUAL   TEETHING.  209 

sometimes  in  the  little  puckered,  twisting  face  such 
grotesque  prophecy  of  future  conflicts,  such  likeness 
to  the  soul's  processes  of  grappling  with  problems,  that 
it  is  uncanny. 

When  we  come  to  the  analysis  of  the  diseases  inci 
dent  to  the  teething  period,  and  the  treatment  of  them, 
the  similitude  is  as  close. 

We  have  sharp,  sudden  inflammations  ;  we  have 
subtle  and  more  deadly  things,  which  men  do  not  de 
tect  till  it  is,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  too  late  to  cure 
them,  —  like  water  on  the  brain;  and  we  have  slow 
wastings  away ;  atrophies,  which  are  worse  than  death, 
leaving  life  enough  to  prolong  death  indefinitely,  being 
as  it  were  living  deaths. 

Who  does  not  know  poor  souls  in  all  stages  of  all 
these,  —  outbreaks  of  rebellion  against  all  forms,  all 
creeds,  all  proprieties  ;  secret  adoptions  of  perilous 
delusions,  fatal  errors  ;  and  slow  settling  down  into 
indifferentism  or  narrow  dogmatism,  the  two  worst  liv 
ing  deaths  ? 

These  are  they  who  live.  Shall  we  say  any  thing 
of  those  of  us  who  die  between  our  seventh  and  eigh 
teenth  spiritual  month  ?  They  never  put  on  babies 
tombstones  "  Died  of  teething."  There  is  always  a 
special  name  for  the  special  symptom  or  set  of  symp 
toms  which  characterized  the  last  days.  But  the 
mother  believes  and  the  doctor  knows  that,  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  teeth  that  were  coming  just  at  that 
time,  the  fever  or  the  croup  would  not  have  killed  the 
child. 

14 


210  BITS   OF  TALK. 

Now  we  come  to  the  treatments  ;  and  here  again  the 
parallelism  is  so  close  as  to  be  ludicrous.  The  lancet 
and  the  rubber  ring  fail.  We  are  still  restless,  and 
scream  and  cry.  Then  our  self-sacrificing  nurses  walk 
with  us  ;  they  rock  us,  they  swing  us,  they  toss  us  up 
and  down,  they  jounce  us  from  top  to  bottom,  till  the 
wonder  is  that  every  organ  in  our  bodies  is  not  dis 
placed.  They  beat  on  glass  and  tin  and  iron  to  distract 
our  attention  and  drown  out  our  noise  by  a  bigger  one  ; 
they  shake  back  and  forth  before  our  eyes  all  things 
that  glitter  and  blaze  ;  they  shout  and  sing  songs  ;  the 
house  and  the  neighborhood  are  searched  and  racked 
for  something  which  will  "amuse"  the  baby.  Then, 
when  we  will  no  longer  be  "  amused,"  and  when  all  this 
restlessness  outside  and  around  us,  added  to  the  rest 
lessness  inside  us,  has  driven  us  more  than  frantic,  and 
the  day  or  the  night  of  their  well-meant  clamor  is  nearly 
over,  their  strength  worn  out,  and  their  wits  at  end, 
—  then  comes  the  "  soothing  syrup,"  deadliest  weapon 
of  all.  This  we  cannot  resist.  If  there  be  they  who 
are  mighty  enough  to  pour  it  down  our  throats,  physi 
cally  or  spiritually,  to  sleep  we  must  go,  and  asleep 
we  must  stay  so  long  as  the  effect  of  the  dose  lasts, 

It  is  of  this  we  oftenest  die,  — not  in  a  day  or  a  year, 
but  after  many  days  and  many  years  ;  when  in  some 
sharp  crisis  we  need  for  our  salvation  the  force  which 
should  have  been  developing  in  our  infancy,  the  muscle 
or  the  nerve  which  should  have  been  steadily  growing 
strong  till  that  moment.  But  the  force  is  not  there ; 
the  muscle  is  weak ;  the  nerve  paralyzed ;  and  we  die 


SPIRITUAL   TEETHING.  211 

at  twenty  of  a  light  fever,  we  fall  down  at  twenty,  under 
sudden  grief  or  temptation,  because  of  our  long  sleeps 
under  soothing  syrups  when  we  were  babies. 

Oh,  good  nurses  and  doctors  of  souls,  let  them  cut 
their  own  teeth,  in  the  natural  ways.  Let  them  scream 
if  they  must,  but  keep  you  still  on  one  side  ;  give  them 
no  false  helps  ;  let  them  alone  so  far  as  it  is  possible 
for  love  and  sympathy  to  do  so.  Man  is  the  only  ani 
mal  that  has  trouble  from  the  growing  of  the  teeth  in 
his  body.  It  must  be  his  own  fault  somehow  that  he 
has  that ;  and  he  has  evidently  been  always  conscious 
of  a  likeness  between  this  difficulty  and  perversion  of 
a  process  natural  to  his  body,  and  the  difficulty  and 
perversion  of  his  getting  sensible  and  just  opinions  ; 
for  it  has  passed  into  the  immortality  of  a  proverb  that 
a  shrewd  man  is  a  man  who  has  "  cut  his  eye-teeth  ;  " 
and  the  four  last  teeth,  which  we  get  late  in  life,  and 
which  cost  many  people  days  of  real  illness,  are  called 
in  all  tongues,  all  countries,  "  wisdom  teeth  ! " 


BITS  OF  TALK. 


GLASS   HOUSES. 

TT7HO  would  live  in  one,  if  he  could  help  it?  And 
*  *  who  wants  to  throw  stones  ? 

But  who  lives  in  any  thing  else,  nowadays  ?  And 
how  much  better  off  are  they  who  never  threw  a  stone 
in  their  lives  than  the  rude  mob  who  throw  them  all 
the  time  ? 

Really,  the  proverb  might  as  well  be  blotted  out  from 
our  books  and  dropped  from  our  speech.  It  has  no 
longer  use  or  meaning. 

It  is  becoming  a  serious  question  what  shall  be  done, 
or  rather  what  can  be  done,  to  secure  to  fastidious  peo 
ple  some  show  and  shadow  of  privacy  in  their  homes. 
The  silly  and  vulgar  passion  of  people  for  knowing  all 
about  their  neighbors'  affairs,  which  is  bad  enough 
while  it  takes' shape  merely  in  idle  gossip  of  mouth,  is 
something  terrible  when  it  is  exalted  into  a  regular 
market  demand  of  the  community,  and  fed  by  a  regular 
market  supply  from  all  who  wish  to  print  what  the 
community  will  read. 

We  do  not  know  which  is  worse  in  this  traffic,  the 
buyer  or  the  seller  ;  we  think,  on  the  whole,  the  buyer. 


GLASS  HOUSES.  213 

But  then  he  is  again  a  seller;  and  so  there  it  is, — 
wheel  within  wheel,  cog  upon  cog.  And,  since  all 
these  sellers  must  earn  their  bread  and  butter,  the 
more  one  searches  for  a  fair  point  of  attacking  the  evil, 
the  more  he  is  perplexed. 

The  man  who  writes  must,  if  he  needs  pay  for  his 
work,  write  what  the  man  who  prints  will  buy.  The 
man  who  prints  must  print  what  the  people  who  read 
will  buy.  Upon  whom,  then,  shall  we  lay  earnest 
hands  ?  Clearly,  upon  the  last  buyer,  —  upon  him  who 
reads.  But  things  have  come  to  such  a  pass  already 
that  to  point  out  to  the  average  American  that  it  is 
vulgar  and  also  unwholesome  to  devour  with  greedy 
delight  all  sorts  of  details  about  his  neighbors'  business 
seems  as  hopeless  and  useless  as  to  point  out  to  the 
currie-eater  or  the  whiskey-drinker  the  bad  effects  of 
fire  and  strychnine  upon  mucous  membranes.  The 
diseased  palate  craves  what  has  made  it  diseased,  — 
craves  it  more,  and  more,  and  more.  In  case  of  stom 
achs,  Nature  has  a  few  simple  inventions  of  her  own 
for  bringing  reckless  abuses  to  a  stand-still,  —  dys 
pepsia,  and  delirium-tremens,  and  so  on. 

But  she  takes  no  account,  apparently,  of  the  dis 
eased  conditions  of  brains  incident  to  the  long  use  of 
unwholesome  or  poisonous  intellectual  food.  Perhaps 
she  never  anticipated  this  class  of  excesses.  And,  if 
there  were  to  be  a  precisely  correlative  punishment,  it 
is  to  be  feared  it  would  fall  more  heavily  on  the  least 
guilty  offender.  It  is  not  hard  to  fancy  a  poor  soul 
who,  having  been  condemned  to  do  reporters'  duty  for 


214  BITS  OF  TALK. 

some  years,  and  having  been  forced  to  dwell  and  dilate 
upon  scenes  and  details  which  his  very  soul  revolted 
from  mentioning,  — it  is  not  hard  to  fancy  such  a  soul 
visited  at  last,  by  a  species  of  delirium-tremens,  in 
which  the  speeches  of  men  who  had  spoken,  the  gowns 
of  women  who  had  danced,  the  faces,  the  figures,  the 
furniture  of  celebrities,  should  all  be  mixed  up  in  a 
grotesque  phantasmagoria  of  torture,  before  which  he 
should  writhe  as  helplessly  and  agonizingly  as  the  poor 
whiskey-drinker  before  his  snakes.  But  it  would  be  a 
cruel  misplacement  of  punishment.  All  the  while  the 
true  guilty  would  be  placidly  sitting  down  at  still  fur 
ther  unsavory  banquets,  which  equally  helpless  pro 
viders  were  driven  to  furnish  ! 

The  evil  is  all  the  harder  to  deal  with,  also,  because 
it  is  like  so  many  evils,  —  all,  perhaps,  —  only  a  dis 
eased  outgrowth,  from  a  legitimate  and  justifiable 
thing.  It  is  our  duty  to  sympathize ;  it  is  our  privi 
lege  and  pleasure  to  admire.  No  man  lives  to  himself 
alone  ;  no  man  can  ;  no  man  ought.  It  is  right  that 
we  should  know  about  our  neighbors  all  which  will 
help  us  to  help  them,  to  be  just  to  them,  to  avoid  them, 
if  need  be ;  in  short,  all  which  we  need  to  know  for 
their  or  our  reasonable  and  fair  advantage.  It  is  right 
also,  that  we  should  know  about  men  who  are  or  have 
been  great  all  which  can  enable  us  to  understand  their 
greatness  ;  to  profit,  to  imitate,  to  revere  ;  all  that  will 
help  us  to  remember  whatever  is  worth  remembering. 
There  is  education  in  this  ;  it  is  experience,  it  is  his 
tory. 


GLASS  HOUSES.  215 

But  how  much  of  what  is  written,  printed,  and  read 
to-day  about  the  men  and  women  of  to-day  comes 
under  these  heads  ?  It  is  unnecessary  to  do  more 
than  ask  the  question.  It  is  still  more  unnecessary  to 
do  more  than  ask  how  many  of  the  men  and  women  of 
to-day,  whose  names  have  become  almost  as  stereo 
typed  a  part  of  public  journals  as  the  very  titles  of  the 
journals  themselves,  have  any  claim  to  such  promi 
nence.  But  all  these  considerations  seem  insignificant 
by  side  of  the  intrinsic  one  of  the  vulgarity  of  the 
thing,  and  its  impudent  ignoring  of  the  most  sacred 
rights  of  individuals.  That  there  are  here  and  there 
weak  fools  who  like  to  see  their  names  and  most  trivial 
movements  chronicled  in  newspapers  cannot  be  de 
nied.  But  they  are  few.  And  their  silly  pleasure  is 
very  small  in  the  aggregate  compared  with  the  annoy 
ance  and  pain  suffered  by  sensitive  and  refined  people 
from  these  merciless  invasions  of  their  privacy.  No 
precautions  can  forestall  them,  no  reticence  prevent ; 
nothing,  apparently,  short  of  dying  outright,  can  set 
one  free.  And  even  then  it  is  merely  leaving  the  tor 
ture  behind,  a  harrowing  legacy  to  one's  friends ;  for 
tombs  are  even  less  sacred  than  houses.  Memory, 
friendship,  obligation,  —  all  are  lost  sight  of  in  the 
greed  of  desire  to  make  an  effective  sketch,  a  surpris 
ing  revelation,  a  neat  analysis,  or  perhaps  an  adroit 
implication  of  honor  to  one's  self  by  reason  of  an  old 
association  with  greatness  Private  letters  and  private 
conversations,  which  may  .ouch  living  hearts  in  a  thou 
sand  sore  spots,  are  hawked  about  as  coolly  as  if  they 


216  BITS  OF  TALK. 

had  been  old  clothes,  left  too  long  unredeemed  in  the 
hands  of  the  pawn-broker !  "  Dead  men  tell  no  tales," 
says  the  proverb.  One  wishes  they  could  !  We  should 
miss  some  spicy  contributions  to  magazine  and  news 
paper  literature  ;  and  a  sudden  silence  would  fall  upon 
some  loud-mouthed  living. 

But  we  despair  of  any  cure  for  this  evil.  No  ridi 
cule,  no  indignation  seems  to  touch  it.  People  must 
make  the  best  they  can  of  their  glass  houses  ;  and,  if 
the  stones  come  too  fast,  take  refuge  in  the  cellars. 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  MONGER.          217 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  MONGER  IN  JOUR 
NALISM. 


E  old-clothes  business  has  never  been  consid- 
-•"  ered  respectable.  It  is  supposed  to  begin  and 
to  end  with  cheating  ;  it  deals  with  very  dirty  things. 
It  would  be  hard  to  mention  a  calling  of  lower  repute. 
From  the  men  who  come  to  your  door  with  trays  of 
abominable  china  vases  on  their  heads,  and  are  ready 
to  take  any  sort  of  rags  in  payment  for  them,  down  — 
or  up?  —  to  the  bigger  wretches  who  advertise  that 
"ladies  and  gentlemen  can  obtain  the  highest  price  for 
their  cast-off  clothing  by  calling  at  No.  so  and  so,  on 
such  a  street,"  they  are  all  alike  odious  and  despicable. 

We  wonder  when  we  find  anybody  who  is  not  an 
abject  Jew,  engaged  in  the  business.  We  think  we 
can  recognize  the  stamp  of  the  disgusting  traffic  on 
their  very  faces.  It  is  by  no  means  uncommon  to  hear 
it  said  of  a  sorry  sneak,  "  He  looks  like  an  old-clothes 
dealer." 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  old-clothes  mongers  in 
journalism  ?  By  the  very  name  we  have  defined,  de 
scribed  them,  and  pointed  them  out.  If  only  we  could 
make  the  name  such  a  badge  of  disgrace  that  every 


21 8  BITS  OF  TALK. 

member  of  the  fraternity  should  forthwith  betake  him 
or  herself  to  some  sort  of  honest  labor  ! 

These  are  they  who  crowd  the  columns  of  our  daily 
newspapers  with  the  dreary,  monotonous,  worthless, 
scandalous  tales  of  what  other  men  and  women  did, 
are  doing,  or  will  do,  said,  say,  or  will  say,  wore,  wear, 
or  will  wear,  thought,  think,  or  will  think,  ate,  eat,  or 
will  eat,  drank,  drink,  or  will  drink :  and  if  there  be 
any  other  verb  coming  under  the  head  of  "  to  do,  to  be, 
to  suffer,"  add  that  to  the  list,  and  the  old-clothes  mon 
ger  will  furnish  you  with  something  to  fill  out  the 
phrase. 

These  are  they  who  patch  out  their  miserable,  little, 
sham  "properties  "  for  mock  representations  of  life,  by 
scraps  from  private  letters,  bits  of  conversation  over 
heard  on  piazzas,  in  parlors,  in  bedrooms,  by  odds  and 
ends  of  untrustworthy  statements  picked  up  at  railway- 
stations,  church-doors,  and  offices  of  all  sorts,  by  im 
pudent  inferences  and  suppositions,  and  guesses  about 
other  people's  affairs,  by  garblings  and  partial  quot 
ings,  and,  if  need  be,  by  wholesale  lyings. 

The  trade  is  on  the  increase,  —  rapidly,  fearfully  on 
the  increase.  Every  large  city,  every  summer  water 
ing-place,  is  more  or  less  infested  with  this  class  of 
dealers.  The  goods  they  have  to  furnish  are  more  and 
more  in  demand.  There  is  hardly  a  journal  in  the 
country  but  has  column  after  column  full  of  their  tat 
tered  wares  ;  there  is  hardly  a  man  or  woman  in  the 
country  but  buys  them. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  remedy.     Human  nature  has 


THE  OLD-CLOTHES  MONGER.  219 

not  yet  shed  all  the  monkey.  A  lingering  and  grovel 
ling  baseness  in  the  average  heart  delights  in  this  sort 
of  cast-off  clothes  of  fellow-worms.  But  if  the  trade 
must  continue,  can  we  not  insist  that  the  profits  be 
shared  ?  If  A  is  to  receive  ten  dollars  for  quoting  B's 
remarks  at  a  private  dinner  yesterday,  shall  not  B  have 
a  small  percentage  on  the  sale  ?  Clearly,  this  is  only 
justice.  And  in  cases  where  the  wares  are  simply 
stolen,  shall  there  be  no  redress  ?  Here  is  an  opening 
for  a  new  Bureau.  How  well  its  advertisements  would 
read :  — 

"  Ladies  and  gentlemen  wishing  to  dispose  of  their 
old  opinions,  sentiments,  feelings,  and  so  forth,  and 
also  of  the  more  interesting  facts  in  their  personal 
history,  can  obtain  good  prices  for  the  same  at  No.  — 
Tittle-tattle  street.  Inquire  at  the  door  marked  i  Regu 
lar  and  Special  Correspondence.' 

"  N.  B.  —  Persons  willing  to  be  reported  verbatim 
will  receive  especial  consideration." 

We  commend  this  brief  suggestion  of  a  new  business 
to  all  who  are  anxious  to  make  a  living  and  not  par 
ticular  how  they  make  it.  Perhaps  the  class  of  whom 
we  have  been  speaking  would  find  it  profitable  to  set 
it  up  as  a  branch  of  their  own  calling.  It  is  quite  pos 
sible  that  nobody  else  in  the  country  would  like  to 
meddle  with  it. 


220  BITS  OF  TALK. 


THE   COUNTRY  LANDLORD'S   SIDE. 

TT  is  only  one  side,  to  be  sure.  But  it  is  the  side  of 
•*•  which  we  hear  least.  The  quarrel  is  like  all  quar 
rels,  —  it  takes  two  to  make  it ;  but  as,  of  those  two, 
one  is  only  one,  and  the  other  is  from  ten  to  a  hun 
dred,  it  is  easy  to  see  which  side  will  do  most  talking 
in  setting  forth  its  grievances. 

"  It  is  naught,  it  is  naught,  saith  the  buyer ;  and 
when  he  is  gone  his  way  then  he  boasteth."  We  are 
oftener  reminded  of  this  text  of  Scripture  than  of  any 
other  when  we  listen  to  conversations  in  regard  to 
boarders  in  country  houses. 

"  Oh,  let  me  tell  you  of  such  a  nice  place  we  have 
found  to  board  in  the  country.  It  is  only  —  miles 

from  Mt. or  Lake ;  the  drives  are  delightful, 

and  board  is  only  $7  a  week." 

"Is  the  table  a  good  one  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  very  good  for  the  country.  We  had  good 
butter  and  milk,  and  eggs  in  abundance.  Meats,  of 
course,  are  never  very  good  in  the  country.  But 
everybody  gained  a  pound  a  week ;  and  we  are  go 
ing  again  this  year,  if  they  have  not  'raised  their 
prices." 


THE  COUNTRY  LANDLORD'S  SIDE.        221 

Then  this  model  of  a  city  woman,  in  search  of 
country  lodgings,  sits  down  and  writes  to  the  land 
lord  :— 

"Dear  Sir,  —  We  would  like  to  secure  our  old 
rooms  in  your  house  for  the  whole  of  July  and  August. 
As  we  shall  remain  so  long  a  time,  we  hope  you  may 
be  willing  to  count  all  the  children  at  half-price.  Last 
year,  you  may  remember,  we  paid  full  price  for  the  two 
eldest,  the  twins,  who  are  not  yet  quite  fourteen.  I 

hope,  also,  that  Mrs. has  better  arrangements 

for  washing  this  summer,  and  will  allow  us  to  have  our 
own  servant  to  do  the  washing  for  the  whole  family. 
If  these  terms  suit  you,  the  price  for  my  family — eight 
children,  myself,  and  servant — would  be  $38.50  a 
week.  Perhaps,  if  the  servant  takes  the  entire  charge 
of  my  rooms,  you  would  call  it  $37  ;  as,  of  course,  that 
would  save  the  time  of  your  own  servants." 

Then  the  country  landlord  hesitates.  He  is  not 
positively  sure  of  filling  all  his  rooms  for  the  season. 
Thirty-seven  dollars  a  week  would  be,  he  thinks,  better 
than  nothing.  In  his  simplicity,  he  supposes  that,  if 

he  confers,  as  he  certainly  does,  a  favor  on  Mrs. , 

by  receiving  her  great  family  on  such  low  terms,  she 
will  be  thoroughly  well  disposed  toward  him  and  his 
house,  and  will  certainly  not  be  over-exacting  in  matter 
of  accommodations.  In  an  evil  hour,  he  consents  ; 
they  come,  and  he  begins  to  reap  his  reward.  The 
twins  are  stout  boys,  as  large  as  men,  and  much  hun- 
•  grier.  The  baby  is  a  sickly  child  of  eighteen  months, 
and  requires  especial  diet,  which  must  be  prepared  at 


222  BITS  OF  TALK. 

especial  and  inconvenient  hours,  in  the  crowded  little 
kitchen.  The  other  five  children  are  average  boys  and 
girls,  between  the  ages  of  three  and  twelve,  eat  cer 
tainly  as  much  as  five  grown  people,  and  make  twice 
as  much  trouble.  The  servant  is  a  slow,  inefficient, 
impudent  Irish  girl,  who  spends  the  greater  part  of 
four  days  in  doing  the  family  washing,  and  makes  the 
other  servants  uncomfortable  and  cross. 

If  this  were  all ;  but  this  is  not.  Mrs. ,  who 

writes  to  all  her  friends  boastingly  of  the  cheap  sum 
mer  quarters  that  she  has  found,  and  who  gains  by  the 
vHlage  shop-keeper's  scales  a  pound  of  flesh  a  week, 
habitually  finds  fault  with  the  food,  with  the  mattresses, 
with  the  chairs,  with  the  rag-carpets,  with  every  thing, 
in  short,  down  to  the  dust  and  the  flies,  for  neither  of 
which  last  the  poor  landlord  could  be  legitimately  held 
responsible.  This  is  not  an  exaggerated  picture. 
Everybody  who  has  boarded  in  country  places  in  the 
summer  has  known  dozens  of  such  women.  Every 
country  landlord  can  produce  dozens  of  such  let 
ters,  and  of  letters  still  more  exacting  and  unrea 
sonable. 

The  average  city  man  or  woman  who  goes  to  a 
country  house  to  board,  goes  expecting  what  it  is  in 
the  nature  of  things  impossible  that  they  should  have. 
The  man  expects  to  have  boots  blacked  and  hot  water 
ready,  and  a  bell  to  ring  for  both.  What  experienced 
country  boarder  has  not  laughed  in  his  sleeve  to  see 
such  an  one,  newly  arrived,  putting  his  head  out  snap- 
pi  ngly,  like  a  turtle,  from  his  doorway,  and  calling  to 


THE  COUNTRY  LANDLORD'S  SIDE.     223 

chance  passers,  "How  d'ye  get  at  anybody  in  this 
house  ?  " 

If  it  is  a  woman,  she  expects  that  the  tea  will  be  of 
the  finest  flavor,  and  never  boiled  ;  that  steaks  will  be 
porter-house  steaks  ;  that  green  peas  will  be  in  plenty ; 
and  that  the  American  girl,  who  is  chambermaid  for 
the  summer,  and  school-teacher  in  the  winter,  and  who, 
ten  to  one,  could  put  her  to  the  blush  in  five  minutes 
by  superior  knowledge  on  many  subjects,  will  enter 
and  leave  her  room  and  wait  upon  her  at  the  table 
with  the  silent  respectfulness  of  a  trained  city  ser 
vant. 

This  is  all  very  silly.  But  it  happens.  At  the  end 
of  every  summer  hundreds  of  disappointed  city  people 
go  back  to  their  homes  grumbling  about  country  food 
and  country  ways.  Hundreds  of  tired  and  discouraged 
wives  of  country  landlords  sit  down  in  their  houses,  at 
last  emptied,  and  vow  a  vow  that  never  again  will  they 
take  "  city  folks  to  board."  But  the  great  law  of  supply 
and  demand  is  too  strong  for  them.  The  city  must 
come  out  of  itself  for  a  few  weeks,  and  get  oxygen  for 
its  lungs,  sunlight  for  its  eyes,  and  rest  for  its  over 
worked  brain.  The  country  must  open  its  arms, 
whether  it  will  or  not,  and  share  its  blessings.  And 
so  the  summers  and  the  summerings  go  on,  and  there 
are  always  to  be  heard  in  the  land  the  voices  of  mur 
muring  boarders,  and  of  landlords  deprecating,  vindi 
cating.  We  confess  that  our  sympathies  are  with  the 
landlords.  The  average  country  landlord  is  an  honest, 
well-meaning  man,  whose  idea  of  the  profit  to  be  made 


224  BITS  OF  TALK. 

"  off  boarders  "  is  so  moderate  and  simple  that  the 
keepers  of  city  boarding-houses  would  laugh  it  and 
him  to  scorn.  If  this  were  not  so,  would  he  be  found 
undertaking  to  lodge  and  feed  people  for  one  dollar  or 
a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day  ?  Neither  does  he  dream  of 
asking  them,  even  at  this  low  price,  to  fare  as  he  fares. 
The  "  Excelsior"  mattresses,  at  which  they  cry  out  in 
disgust,  are  beds  of  down  in  comparison  with  the  straw 
"tick"  on  which  he  and  his  wife  sleep  soundly  and 
contentedly.  He  has  paid  $4.50  for  each  mattress,  as 
a  special  concession  to  what  he  understands  city  prej 
udice  to  require.  The  cheap  painted  chamber-sets 
are  holiday  adorning  by  the  side  of  the  cherry  and  pine 
in  the  bedrooms  of  his  family.  He  buys  fresh  meat 
every  day  for  dinner  ;  and  nobody  can  understand  the 
importance  of  this  fact  who  is  not  familiar  with  the 
habit  of  salt-pork  and  codfish  in  our  rural  districts. 
That  the  meat  is  tough,  pale,  stringy  is  not  his  fault ; 
no  other  is  to  be  bought.  Stetson  himself,  if  he  dealt 
with  this  country  butcher,  could  do  no  better.  Vege 
tables  ?  Yes,  he  has  planted  them.  If  we  look  out 
of  our  windows,  we  can  see  them  on  their  winding 
way.  They  will  be  ripe  by  and  by.  He  never  tasted 
peas  in  his  life  before  the  Fourth  of  July,  or  cucumbers 
before  the  middle  of  August.  He  hears  that  there  are 
such  things  ;  but  he  thinks  they  must  be  "  dreadful 
unhealthy,  them  things  forced  out  of  season,"  —  and, 
whether  healthy  or  not,  he  can't  get  them.  We  couldn't 
ourselves,  if  we  were  keeping  house  in  the  same  town 
ship  To  be  sure,  we  might  send  to  the  cities  for 


THE  COUN1RY  LANDLORD'S  SIDE.     22$ 

them,  and  be  served  with  such  as  were  wilted  to  begin 
with,  and  would  arrive  utterly  unfit  to  be  eaten  at  end 
of  their  day's  journey,  costing  double  their  market 
price  in  the  added  express  charge.  We  should  not 
do  any  such  thing.  We  should  do  just  as  he  does, 
make  the  best  of  "plum  sauce,"  or  even  dried  apples. 
We  should  not  make  our  sauce  with  molasses,  proba 
bly  ;  but  he  does  not  know  that  sugar  is  better ;  he 
honestly  likes  molasses  best.  As  for  saleratus  in  the 
bread,  as  for  fried  meat,  and  fried  doughnuts,  and  ubi 
quitous  pickles,  —  all  those  things  have  he,  and  his 
fathers  before  him,  eaten,  and,  he  thinks,  thriven  on 
from  time  immemorial.  He  will  listen  incredulously 
to  all  we  say  about  the  effects  of  alkalies,  the  change 
of  fats  to  injurious  oils  by  frying,  the  indigestibility  of 
pickles,  &c. ;  for,  after  all,  the  unanswerable  fact  re 
mains  on  his  side,  though  he  may  be  too  polite  or  too 
slow  to  make  use  of  it  in  the  argument,  that,  having 
fed  on  these  poisons  all  his  life,  he  can  easily  thrash 
us  to-day,  and  his  wife  and  daughters  can  and  do  work 
from  morning  till  night,  while  ours  must  lie  down  and 
rest  by  noon.  In  spite  of  all  this,  he  will  do  what  he 
can  to  humor  our  whims.  Never  yet  have  we  seen  the 
country  boarding-house  where  kindly  and  persistent 
remonstrance  would  not  introduce  the  gridiron  and 
banish  the  frying-pan,  and  obtain  at  least  an  attempt 
at  yeast-bread.  Good,  patient,  long-suffering  country 
people !  The  only  wonder  to  us  is  that  they  tolerate 
so  pleasantly,  make  such  effort  to  gratify,  the  prefer 
ences  and  prejudices  of  city  men  and  women,  who 
15 


226  BITS   OF  TALK. 

come  and  who  remain  strangers  among  them  ;  and  who, 
in  so  many  instances,  behave  from  first  to  last  as  if  they 
were  of  a  different  race,  and  knew  nothing  of  any  com 
mon  bonds  of  humanity  and  Christianity. 


THE  GOOD  STAFF  OF  PLEASURE.       22 7 


THE  GOOD   STAFF  OF  PLEASURE. 

TN  an  inn  in  Berchtesgaden,  Bavaria,  where  I  dined 
•*"  every  day  for  three  weeks,  one  summer,  I  made 
the  acquaintance  of  a  little  maid  called  Gretchen.  She 
stood  all  day  long  washing  dishes,  in  a  dark  passage 
way  which  communicated  in  some  mysterious  fashion 
with  cellar,  kitchen,  dining-room,  and  main  hall  of  the 
inn.  From  one  or  other  of  these  quarters  Gretchen 
was  sharply  called  so  often  that  it  was  a  puzzle  to  know 
how  she  contrived  to  wash  so  much  as  a  cup  or  a  plate 
in  the  course  of  the  day.  Poor  child  !  I  am  afraid  she 
did  most  of  her  work  after  dark ;  for  I  sometimes  left 
her  standing  there  at  ten  o'clock  at  night.  She  was 
blanched  and  shrunken  from  fatigue  and  lack  of  sun 
light.  I  doubt  if  ever,  unless  perhaps  on  some  excep 
tional  Sunday,  she  knew  the  sensation  of  a  full  breath 
of  pure  air  or  a  warm  sunbeam  on  her  face. 

But  whenever  I  passed  her  she  smiled,  and  there 
was  never-failing  good-cheer  in  her  voice  when  she 
said  "  Good-morning."  Her  uniform  atmosphere  of 
contentedness  so  impressed  and  surprised  me  that,  at 
last,  I  said  to  Franz,  the  head  waiter,  — 

"  What  makes  Gretchen  so  happy  ?     She  has  a  hard 


228  BITS  OF  TALK. 

life,  always  standing  in  that  narrow  dark  place,  wash 
ing  dishes." 

Franz  was  phlegmatic,  and  spoke  very  little  English. 
He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  in  sign  of  assent  that 
Gretchen's  life  was  a  hard  one,  and  added,  — 

"Ja,  ja.  She  likes  because  all  must  come  at  her 
door.  There  will  be  no  one  which  will  say  not  noth 
ing  if  they  go  by." 

That  was  it.  Almost  every  hour  some  human  voice 
said  pleasantly  to  her,  "  Good-morning,  Gretchen,"  or 
"It  is  a  fine  day ;  "  or,  if  no  word  were  spoken,  there 
would  be  a  friendly  nod  and  smile.  For  nowhere  in 
kind-hearted,  simple  Germany  do  human  beings  pass 
by  other  human  beings,  as  we  do  in  America,  without 
so  much  as  a  turn  of  the  head  to  show  recognition  of 
humanity  in  common. 

This  one  little  pleasure  kept  Gretchen  not  only  alive, 
but  comparatively  glad.  Her  body  suffered  for  want 
of  sun  and  air.  There  was  no  helping  that,  by  any 
amount  of  spiritual  compensation,  so  long  as  she  must 
stand,  year  in  and  year  out,  in  a  close,  dark  corner, 
and  do  hard  drudgery.  But,  if  she  had  stood  in  that 
close,  dark  corner,  doing  that  hard  drudgery,  and  had 
had  no  pleasure  to  comfort  her,  she  would  have  been 
dead  in  three  months. 

If  all  men  and  women  could  realize  the  power,  the 
might  of  even  a  small  pleasure,  how  much  happier  the 
world  would  be !  and  how  much  longer  bodies  and 
souls  both  would  bear  up  under  living !  Sensitive 
people  realize  it  to  the  very  core  of  their  being.  They 


THE  GOOD  STAFF  OF  PLEASURE.   229 

know  that  often  and  often  it  happens  to  them  to  be  re 
vived,  kindled,  strengthened,  to  a  degree  which  they 
could  not  describe,  and  which  they  hardly  comprehend, 
by  some  little  thing,  —  some  word  of  praise,  some  token 
of  remembrance,  some  proof  of  affection  or  recogni 
tion.  They  know,  too,  that  strength  goes  out  of  them, 
just  as  inexplicably,  just  as  fatally,  when  for  a  space, 
perhaps  even  a  short  space,  all  these  are  wanting. 

People  who  are  not  sensitive  also  come  to  find  this 
out,  if  they  are  tender.  They  are  by  no  means  insep 
arable, —  tenderness  and  sensitiveness  ;  if  they  were, 
human  nature  would  be  both  more  comfortable  and 
more  agreeable.  But  tender  people  alone  can  be  just 
to  sensitive  ones  ;  living  in  close  relations  with  them, 
they  learn  what  they  need,  and,  so  far  as  they  can, 
supply  it,  even  when  they  wonder  a  little,  and  perhaps 
grow  a  little  weary. 

We  see  a  tender  and  just  mother  sometimes  sighing 
because  one  over-sensitive  child  must  be  so  much  more 
gently  restrained  or  admonished  than  the  rest.  But 
she  has  her  reward  for  every  effort  to  adjust  her 
methods  to  the  instrument  she  does  not  quite  under 
stand.  If  she  doubts  this,  she  has  only  to  look  on 
the  right  hand  and  the  left,  and  see  the  effect  of  care 
less,  brutal  dealing  with  finely  strung,  sensitive  na 
tures. 

We  see,  also,  many  men,  —  good,  generous,  kindly, 
but  not  sensitive-souled,  —  who  have  learned  that  the 
sunshine  of  their  homes  all  depends  on  little  things, 
which  it  would  never  have  entered  into  their  busy  and 


230  BITS  OF  TALK. 

composed  hearts  to  think  of  doing,  or  saying,  or  pro 
viding,  if  they  had  not  discovered  that  without  them 
their  wives  droop,  and  with  them  they  keep  well. 

People  who  are  neither  tender  nor  sensitive  can 
neither  comprehend  nor  meet  these  needs.  Alas  !  that 
there  are  so  many  such  people  ;  or  that,  if  there  must 
be  just  so  many,  as  I  suppose  there  must,  they  are  not 
distinguishable  at  first  sight,  by  some  mark  of  color,  or 
shape,  or  sound,  so  that  one  might  avoid  them,  or  at 
least  know  what  to  expect  in  entering  into  relation  with 
them.  Woe  be  to  any  sensitive  soul  whose  life  must, 
in  spite  of  itself,  take  tone  and  tint  from  daily  and  in 
timate  intercourse  with  such  !  No  bravery,  no  philos 
ophy,  no  patience  can  save  it  from  a  slow  death.  But, 
while  the  subtlest  and  most  stimulating  pleasures  which 
the  soul  knows  come  to  it  through  its  affections,  and 
are,  therefore,  so  to  speak,  at  every  man's  mercy,  there 
is  still  left  a  world  of  possibility  of  enjoyment,  to  which 
we  can  help  ourselves,  and  which  no  man  can  hinder. 

And  just  here  it  is,  I  think,  that  many  persons, 
especially  those  who  are  hard-worked,  and  those  who 
have  some  special  trouble  to  bear,  make  great  mistake. 
They  might,  perhaps,  say  at  hasty  first  sight  that  it 
would  be  selfish  to  aim  at  providing  themselves  with 
pleasures.  Not  at  all.  Not  one  whit  more  than  it  is 
for  them  to  buy  a  bottle  of  Ayer's  Sarsaparilla  (if  they 
do  not  know  better)  to  "cleanse  their  blood"  in  the 
spring  !  Probably  a  dollar's  worth  of  almost  any  thing 
out  of  any  other  shop  than  a  druggist's  would  "cleanse 
their  blood"  better, — a  geranium,  for  instance,  or  a 


THE  GOOD  STAFF  OF  PLEASURE.       231 

photograph,  or  a  concert,  or  a  book,  or  even  fried 
oysters,  —  any  thing,  no  matter  what,  so  it  is  innocent, 
which  gives  them  a  little  pleasure,  breaks  in  on  the 
monotony  of  their  work  or  their  trouble,  and  makes 
them  have  for  one  half-hour  a  "good  time."  Those 
who  have  near  and  dear  ones  to  remember  these  things 
for  them  need  no  such  words  as  I  am  writing  here. 
Heaven  forgive  them  if,  being  thus  blessed,  they  do 
not  thank  God  daily  and  take  courage. 

But  lonely  people,  and  people  whose  kin  are  not  kind 
or  wise  in  these  things,  must  learn  to  minister  even  in 
such  ways  to  themselves.  It  is  not  selfish.  It  is  not 
foolish.  It  is  wise.  It  is  generous.  Each  contented 
look  on  a  human  face  is  reflected  in  every  other  human 
face  which  sees  it ;  each  growth  in  a  human  soul  is  a 
blessing  to  every  other  human  soul  which  comes  in 
contact  with  it. 

Here  will  come  in,  for  many  people,  the  bitter  re 
strictions  of  poverty.  There  are  so  many  men  and 
women  to  whom  it  would  seem  simply  a  taunt  to  ad 
vise  them  to  spend,  now  and  then,  a  dollar  for  a  pleas 
ure.  That  the  poor  must  go  cold  and  hungry  has 
never  seemed  to  me  the  hardest  feature  in  their  lot ; 
there  are  worse  deprivations  than  that  of  food  or 
raiment,  and  this  very  thing  is  one  of  them.  This  is 
a  point  for  charitable  people  to  remember,  even  more 
than  they  do. 

We  appreciate  this  when  we  give  some  plum-pud 
ding  and  turkey  at  Christmas,  instead  of  all  coal  and 
flannel.  But,  any  day  in  the  year,  a  picture  on  the 


232  BITS  OF  TALK. 

wall  might  perhaps  be  as  comforting  as  a  blanket  on 
the  bed ;  and,  at  any  rate,  would  be  good  for  twelve 
months,  while  the  blanket  would  help  but  six.  I  have 
seen  an  Irish  mother,  in  a  mud  hovel,  turn  red  with 
delight  at  a  rattle  for  her  baby,  when  I  am  quite  sure 
she  would  have  been  indifferently  grateful  for  a  pair  of 
socks. 

Food  and  physicians  and  money  are  and  always  will 
be  on  the  earth.  But  a  "  merry  heart"  is  a  "  continual 
feast,"  and  "  doeth  good  like  a  medicine  ;  "  and  "  lov 
ing  favor  "  is  "  chosen,"  "  rather  than  gold  and  silver." 


WANTED.  —  A  HOME.  233 


WANTED.— A  HOME. 

TOOTHING  can  be  meaner  than  that  "Misery 
-*-^  should  love  company."  But  the  proverb  is 
founded  on  an  original  principle  in  human  nature^ 
which  it  is  no  use  to  deny  and  hard  work  to  conquer. 
I  have  been  uneasily  conscious  of  this  sneaking  sin 
in  my  own  soul,  as  I  have  read  article  after  article  in 
the  English  newspapers  and  magazines  on  the  "  deca 
dence  of  the  home  spirit  in  English  family  life,  as  seen 
in  the  large  towns  and  the  metropolis."  It  seems  that 
the  English  are  as  badly  off  as  we.  There,  also,  men 
are  wide-awake  and  gay  at  clubs  and  races,  and  sleepy 
and  morose  in  their  own  houses  ;  "  sons  lead  lives  in 
dependent  of  their  fathers  and  apart  from  their  sisters 
and  mothers  ;  "  "girls  run  about  as  they  please,  with 
out  care  or  guidance."  This  state  of  things  is  "a 
spreading  social  evil,"  and  men  are  at  their  wit's  end 
to  know  what  is  to  be  done  about  it.  They  are  ran 
sacking  "  national  character  and  customs,  religion,  and 
the  particular  tendency  of  the  present  literary  and  sci 
entific  thought,  and  the  teaching  and  preaching  of  the 
public  press,"  to  find  out  the  root  of  the  trouble.  One 
writer  ascribes  it  to  the  "  exceeding  restlessness  and 
the  desire  to  be  doing  something  which  are  predomi 
nant  and  indomitable  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  race ; "  an- 


234  BITS  OF  TALK. 

other  to  the  passion  which  almost  all  families  have  for 
seeming  richer  and  more  fashionable  than  their  means 
will  allow.  In  these,  and  in  most  of  their  other  theories, 
they  are  only  working  round  and  round,  as  doctors  so 
often  do,  in  the  dreary  circle  of  symptomatic  results, 
without  so  much  as  touching  or  perhaps  suspecting 
their  real  centre.  How  many  people  are  blistered  for 
spinal  disease,  or  blanketed  for  rheumatism,  when  the 
real  trouble  is  a  little  fiery  spot  of  inflammation  in 
the  lining  of  the  stomach  !  and  all  these  difficulties  in 
the  outworks  are  merely  the  creaking  of  the  machinery, 
because  the  central  engine  does  not  work  properly. 
Blisters  and  blankets  may  go  on  for  seventy  years 
coddling  the  poor  victim ;  but  he  will  stay  ill  to  the 
last  if  his  stomach  be  not  set  right. 

There  is  a  close  likeness  between  the  doctor's  high- 
sounding  list  of  remote  symptoms,  which  he  is  treating 
as  primary  diseases,  and  the  hue  and  outcry  about  the 
decadence  of  the  home  spirit,  the  prevalence  of  ex 
cessive  and  improper  amusements,  club-houses,  bil 
liard-rooms,  theatres,  and  so  forth,  which  are  "the 
banes  of  homes." 

The  trouble  is  in  the  homes.  Homes  are  stupid, 
homes  are  dreary,  homes  are  insufferable.  If  one  can 
be  pardoned  for  the  Irishism  of  such  a  saying,  homes 
are  their  own  worst  "banes."  If  homes  were  what 
they  should  be,  nothing  under  heaven  could  be  invented 
which  could  be  bane  to  them,  which  would  do  more 
than  serve  as  useful  foil  to  set  off  their  better  cheer, 
then1  pleasanter  ways,  their  wholes omer  joys. 


WANTED.  —  A  HOME.  235 

Whose  fault  is  it  that  they  are  not  so?  Fault  is  a 
heavy  word.  It  includes  generations  in  its  pitiless 
entail.  Sufficient  for  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof  is  but 
one  side  of  the  truth.  No  day  is  sufficient  unto  the 
evil  thereof  is  the  other.  Each  day  has  to  bear  bur 
dens  passed  down  from  so.  many  other  days  ;  each  per 
son  has  to  bear  burdens  so  complicated,  so  interwoven 
with  the  burdens  of  others  ;  each  person's  fault  is  so 
fevered  and  swollen  by  faults  of  others,  that  there  is  no 
disentangling  the  question  of  responsibility,  Every 
thing  is  everybody's  fault  is  the  simplest  and  fairest 
way  of  putting  it.  It  is  everybody's  fault  that  the 
average  home  is  stupid,  dreary,  insufferable,  —  a  place 
from  which  fathers  fly  to  clubs,  boys  and  girls  to  streets. 
But  when  we  ask  who  can  do  most  to  remedy  this,  — 
in  whose  hands  it  most  lies  to  fight  the  fight  against 
the  tendencies  to  monotony,  stupidity,  and  instability 
which  are  inherent  in  human  nature,  —  then  the  answer 
is  clear  and  loud.  It  is  the  work  ,pf  women  ;  this  is 
the  true  mission  of  women,  their  "right"  divine  and 
unquestionable,  and  including  most  emphatically  the 
"right  to  labor." 

To  create  and  sustain  the  atmosphere  of  a  home,  — 
it  is  easily  said  in  a  very  few  words  ;  but  how  many 
women  have  done  it  ?  How  many  women  can  say  to 
themselves  or  others  that  this  is  their  aim  ?  To  keep 
house  well  women  often  say  they  desire.  But  keeping 
house  well  is  another  affair, —  I  had  almost  said  it  has 
nothing  to  do  with  creating  a  home.  That  is  not  true, 
of  course  ;  comfortable  living,  as  regards  food  and  fire 


236  BITS  OF  TALK. 

and  clothes,  can  do  much  to  help  on  a  home.  Never 
theless,  with  one  exception,  the  best  homes  I  have 
ever  seen  were  in  houses  which  were  not  especially 
well  kept ;  and  the  very  worst  I  have  ever  known  were 
presided  (I  mean  tyrannized)  over  by  "  perfect  house 
keepers." 

All  creators  are  single-aimed.  Never  will  the  painter, 
sculptor,  writer  lose  sight  of  his  art.  Even  in  the  in 
tervals  of  rest  and  diversion  which  are  necessary  to 
his  health  and  growth,  every  thing  he  sees  ministers  to 
his  passion.  Consciously  or  unconsciously,  he  makes 
each  shape,  color,  incident  his  own  ;  sooner  or  later  it 
will  enter  into  his  work. 

So  it  must  be  with  the  woman  who  will  create  a 
home.  There  is  an  evil  fashion  of  speech  which  says 
it  is  a  narrowing  and  narrow  life  that  a  woman  leads 
who  cares  only,  works  only  for  her  husband  and  chil 
dren  ;  that  a  higher,  more  imperative  thing  is  that  she 
herself  be  developed  to  her  utmost.  Even  so  clear  and 
strong  a  writer  as  Frances  Cobbe,  in  her  otherwise 
admirable  essay  on  the  "  Final  Cause  of  Woman,"  falls 
into  this  shallowness  of  words,  and  speaks  of  women 
who  live  solely  for  their  families  as  "adjectives." 

In  the  family  relation  so  many  women  are  noth 
ing  more,  so  many  women  become  even  less,  that 
human  conception  may  perhaps  be  forgiven  for  losing 
sight  of  the  truth,  the  ideal.  Yet  in  women  it  is  hard 
to  forgive  it.  Thinking  clearly,  she  should  see  that  a 
creator  can  never  be  an  adjective  ;  and  that  a  woman 
who  creates  and  sustains  a  home,  and  under  whose 


WANTED.  — A  HOME.  237 

hands  children  grow  up  to  be  strong  and  pure  men  and 
women,  is  a  creator,  second  only  to  God. 

Before  she  can  do  this,  she  must  have  development ; 
in  and  by  the  doing  of  this  comes  constant  develop 
ment  ;  the  higher  her  development,  the  more  perfect 
her  work  ;  the  instant  her  own  development  is  arrested, 
her  creative  power  stops.  All  science,  all  art,  all 
religion,  all  experience  of  life,  all  knowledge  of  men  — 
will  help  her  ;  the  stars  in  their  courses  can  be  won  to 
fight  for  her.  Could  she  attain  the  utmost  of  knowl 
edge,  could  she  have  all  possible  human  genius,  it 
would  be  none  too  much.  Reverence  holds  its  breath 
and  goes  softly,  perceiving  what  it  is  in  this  woman's 
power  to  do  ;  with  what  divine  patience,  steadfastness, 
and  inspiration  she  must  work. 

Into  the  home  she  will  create,  monotony,  stupidity, 
antagonisms  cannot  come.  Her  foresight  will  provide 
occupations  and  amusements  ;  her  loving  and  alert 
diplomacy  will  fend  off  disputes.  Unconsciously, 
every  member  of  her  family  will  be  as  clay  in  her 
hands.  More  anxiously  than  any  statesman  will  she 
meditate  on  the  wisdom  of  each  measure,  the  bearing 
of  each  word.  The  least  possible  governing  which  is 
compatible  with  order  will  be  her  first  principle ;  her 
second,  the  greatest  possible  influence  which  is  com 
patible  with  the  growth  of  individuality.  Will  the 
woman  whose  brain  and  heart  are  working  these  prob 
lems,  as  applied  to  a  household,  be  an  adjective  ?  be 
idle? 

She  will  be  no  more  an  adjective  than  the  sun  is  an 


238  BITS  OF  TALK. 

adjective  in  the  solar  system ;  no  more  idle  than  Na 
ture  is  idle.  She  will  be  perplexed ;  she  will  be  weary ; 
she  will  be  disheartened,  sometimes.  All  creators,  save 
One,  have  known  these  pains  and  grown  strong  by 
them.  But  she  will  never  withdraw  her  hand  for  one 
instant.  Delays  and  failures  will  only  set  her  to  cast 
ing  about  for  new  instrumentalities.  She  will  press  all 
things  into  her  service.  She  will  master  sciences,  that 
her  boys'  evenings  need  not  be  dull.  She  will  be  worldly 
wise,  and  render  to  Cxsar  his  dues,  that  her  husband 
and  daughters  may  have  her  by  their  side  in  all  their 
pleasures.  She  will  invent,  she  will  surprise,  she 
will  forestall,  she  will  remember,  she  will  laugh,  she  will 
listen,  she  will  be  young,  she  will  be  old,  and  she  will 
be  three  times  loving,  loving,  loving. 

This  is  too  hard  ?  There  is  the  house  to  be  kept  ? 
And  there  are  poverty  and  sickness,  and  there  is  not 
time? 

Yes,  it  is  hard.  And  there  is  the  house  to  be  kept ; 
and  there  are  poverty  and  sickness  ;  but,  God  be 
praised,  there  is  time.  A  minute  is  time.  In  one 
minute  may  live  the  essence  of  all.  I  have  seen  a 
beggar-woman  make  half  an  hour  of  home  on  a  door 
step,  with  a  basket  of  broken  meat !  And  the  most 
perfect  home  I  ever  saw  was  in  a  little  house  into  the 
sweet  incense  of  whose  fires  went  no  costly  things.  A 
thousand  dollars  served  for  a  year's  living  of  father, 
mother,  and  three  children.  But  the  mother  was  a 
creator  of  a  home  ;  her  relation  with  her  children  was 
the  most  beautiful  I  have  ever  seen ;  even  a  dull  and 


WANTED.  —  A  HOME.  239 

commonplace  man  was  lifted  up  and  enabled  to  do  good 
work  for  souls,  by  the  atmosphere  which  this  woman 
created ;  every  inmate  of  her  house  involuntarily 
looked  into  her  face  for  the  key-note  of  the  day ;  and 
it  always  rang  clear.  From  the  rose-bud  or  clover-leaf 
which,  in  spite  of  her  hard  housework,  she  always 
found  time  to  put  by  our  plates  at  breakfast,  down  to 
the  essay  or  story  she  had  on  hand  to  be  read  or  dis 
cussed  in  the  evening,  there  was  no  intermission  of 
her  influence.  She  has  always  been  and  always  will 
be  my  ideal  of  a  mother,  wife,  home-maker.  If  to  her 
quick  brain,  loving  heart,  and  exquisite  tact  had  been 
added  the  appliances  of  wealth  and  the  enlargements 
of  a  wider  culture,  hers  would  have  been  absolutely 
the  ideal  home.  As  it  was,  it  was  the  best  I  have  ever 
seen.  It  is  more  than  twenty  years  since  I  crossed  its 
threshold.  I  do  not  know  whether  she  is  living  or  not. 
But,  as  I  see  house  after  house  in  which  fathers  and 
mothers  and  children  are  dragging  out  their  lives  in  a 
hap-hazard  alternation  of  listless  routine  and  unpleas 
ant  collision,  I  always  think  with  a  sigh  of  that  poor 
little  cottage  by  the  seashore,  and  of  the  woman  who 
was  "the  light  thereof;"  and  I  find  in  the  faces  of 
many  men  and  children,  as  plainly  written  and  as  sad 
to  see  as  in  the  newspaper  columns  of  "  Personals," 
"Wanted,— a  home." 


Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers'  Publications. 


VERSES. 

BY   H.   H. 


Second  New  Enlarged  Edition.     Square  iSmo.      Uniform 
with  "Bits  of  Talk."     Price  $1.25. 


"The  volume  is  one  which  will  make  H.  H.  dear  to  all  the  levers  of  true 
poetry.    Its  companionship  will  be  a  delight,  its  nobility  of  thought  and  of  purpose 
an  insDiration.  .   .  .  This  new  edition  comprises  not  only  the  former  little  book 
ame  modest  title,  but  as  many  more  new  poems.   .  .  .  The  best  critics 


have  already  assigned  to  H.  H.  her  high  place  in  our  catalogue  of  authors.  She 
is,  without  doubt,  the  most  highly  intellectual  of  our  female  poets  .  .  .  The  new 
poems,  while  not  inferior  to  the  others  in  point  of  literary  art,  have  in  them  more 
of  fervor  and  of  feeling  ;  more  of  that  lyric  sweetness  which  catches  the  attention, 
and_makes  the  song  sing  itself  over  and  over  afterwards  in  the  remembering  brain. 

-  .  .  Some  of  the  new  poems  seem  among  the  noblest  H.  H.  has  ever  written. 
They  touch  the  high-water  mark  of  her  intellectual  power,  and  are  full,  besides,  of 
passionate  and  tender  feeling.  Among  these  is  the  '  Funeral  March.'  "  — 7V.  Y. 
Tribune. 

"A  delightful  book  is  the  elegant  little  volume  of  'Verses,'  by  H.  H., — 
instinct  with  the  quality  of  the  finest  Christian  womanhood.  .  .  .  Some  wives  and 
mothers,  growing  sedate  with  losses  and  cares,  will  read  many  of  these  'Verses' 
with  a  feeling  of  admiration  that  is  full  of  tenderness."  — Advance. 

"  The  poems  of  this  lady  have  taken  a  place  in  public  estimation  perhaps 
higher  than  that  of  any  living  American  living  poetess.  .  .  .  They  are  the  thoughts 
of  a  delicate  and  refined  sensibility,  which  views  life  through  the  pure,  still  atmos 
phere  of  religious  fervor,  and  unites  all  thought  by  the  tender  talisman  of  love."  — 
Inter-Ocean. 

"  Since  the  days  of  poor  '  L.  E.  L.,'  no  woman  has  sailed  into  fame  under  a 
flag  inscribed  with  her  initials  only,  until  the  days  of  '  H.  H.'  Here,  however, 
the  parallelism  ceases  ;  for  the  fresh,  strong  beauty  which  pervades  these  '  Verses ' 
has  nothing  in  common  with  the  rather  languid  sweetness  of  the  earlier  writer. 
Unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  this  enlarged  volume,  double  the  size  of  that  origi 
nally  issued,  will  place  its  author  not  merely  above  all  American  poetesses  and  all 
living  English  poetesses,  but  above  all  women  who  have  ever  written  poetry  in 
the  English  language,  except  Mrs.  Browning  alone.  'H.  H.'  has  not  yet  proved 
herself  equal  to  Mrs.  Browning  in  range  of  imagination ;  but  in  strength  and  depth 
the  American  writer  is  quite  the  equal  of  the  English,  and  in  compactness  and  sym 
metry  altogether  her  superior."  —  T.  W.  H.  in  the  Index. 


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WIT    AND    WISDOM 


OF 


GEORGE    ELIOT. 

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"  It  is  impossible  to  read  George  Eliot,  either  in  prose  or  poetry,  without 
being  reminded  of  Shakespeare  ;  and  the  resemblance  is  borne  out  in  that  habit 
of  her  mind  which  throws  off  thought  in  crystals,  in  terse  and  lucid  generalizations, 
in  flashing  surprises  of  wit,  and  in  epigrams  that  will  pass  into  the  immortal  cur 
rency  of  the  world's  proverbs.  From  no  other  writer,  it  seems  to  us,  since  Shakes 
peare,  could  so  many  gems  or  statements  —  witty  and  wise  —  be  culled  as  from  the 
works  of  this  wonderful  mind ;  and  in  '  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  George  Eliot '  we 
have  a  collection  which  cannot  fail  to  be  greatly  enjoyed,  and  of  which  we  can  only 
say  that  it  is  so  good  that  we  wonder  at  its  not  having  been  done  before."  —  Chris 
tian  Union. 

"The  novels  of  George  Eliot  are  full  of  nuggets  of  wisdom  and  bits  of  felici 
tous  characterization  that  dwell  in  the  memory  of  the  attentive  reader.  Some  one 
has  had  the  '  happy  thought '  to  gather  up  a  great  number  of  these  gems  and 
arrange  them  in  a  volume  to  themselves,  with  a  good  index  to  aid  the  reader  in 
finding  his  favorite.  '  The  Wit  and  Wisdom  of  George  Eliot'  is  a  dainty  little 
book  that  the  readers  of  that  thoughtful  novelist  will  eagerly  seek  and  heartily 
enjoy."  —  Cleveland  Herald. 


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